


Venus

by MSherwood



Category: My Chemical Romance, The Used
Genre: Canon Gay Relationship, Canon Lesbian Relationship, F/F, F/M, Frerard, Gerbert - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2018-10-11 19:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 52,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10471890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MSherwood/pseuds/MSherwood
Summary: Gerard lost a big part of himself when his wife and the son he never met died suddenly. It's a part he may never take back again, a pain pushed to the bottom of his heart every single day. And, well, he's ok with that.Almost.He just didn't know that beautiful full colored eyes could be the only saviour.





	1. Chapter 1

That night had fallen like an object of free falling glass that broke in millions of small pieces when it reached the ground roughly.  
  
It was a Friday in November and the sky that attracted my eyes was devoid of the stars that made me enjoy the company of the angel dressed in red during the previous night. I could not feel anything at all, though the kneeling woman next to me would die in agony at not being able to contain the sobs that were tearing her throat painfully. There was no pain, my heart was not as tight as a heart attack.  
  
Does that make me a bad person?  
  
"Dear Gerard, I would love to go to Alicia's house to congratulate her, but this terrible cough would not allow me." She had told me against the table, the sweat pouring down her face, making her skin glow beneath the sparse illumination of the torches that skirted the kitchen. My expression became a mixture of worry and disappointment. "Go! She will be happy just like your so passionate brother." And she sighed at length. "I'll sleep in a few minutes, and in the morning I'll be better."  
  
"I'll call your mother for a guarantee. Maybe He wants to come before the time and ..."  
  
"Do not worry, my love." She put her hands on my face to look me in the eyes. "It's happened since I was a girl. Not a big boast." She smiled reassuringly, moving back to the bedroom, turning to watch me for a moment. "I love you, Dear Gerard. See you tomorrow."  
  
"I love you more, Lindsey."  
  
"If you say so..."  
  
Maybe I should bitterly regret it and lament for eternity for the misery of having left it alone, to its own (and not even a good one) luck, but it was as if all my emotions had dissipated the moment I opened the bedroom door under the desperate shrieks of Dina, and I found the lifeless body of my wife, who had gone into labor without my knowledge. The scene was worthy of a horror novel: her limbs were stretched out of bed as if about to be undone, the brown eyes studded on the ceiling above, and the originally pearl-colored sheets bathed by blood that flowed endlessly between her legs.  
  
I shifted to the doorpost, my breath coming out of my cold lips. It was not the scene itself - to be considered my almost obsessive love for stories of horror -, it was the squeaky screams of my mother-in-law, who would soon deafen me. As a husband, I should have been dying, begging heaven to give me back that beautiful woman and the little being she carried for five months, but all I could do was put my hand on my chest and sigh deeply to try to stabilize my slight heartbeat before holding Dina by the waist and pulling her away from that room to leave the vision of her daughter's inanimate body.  
  
"It's incredible to see you like this." Dina sobbed against the hands that hid her swollen face from so much crying. "You have always been so sensitive for everything..."  
  
I did not reply, just moved my body into the grass to put an arm behind the back of my neck and let the air out. Anything. There was nothing. I could feel nothing but the chill of that night, for if I did, I would become a very expensive and almost impossible cup to be found that would transmute scraps of glass scattered on the floor after being overthrown by the bastard who drank wine in it.  
  
Does that make me a bad man?


	2. Two years after.

Since a very young age, when my father used to look at the pencils in my hands and say that I would go hungry if I became an artist and not a physical or a mathematician, I have a vague notion of what pain is and how it is represented. Perhaps, pain was that damn stitch in the chest that appeared in the second when Donald's brown eyes fell on my love, that accusation more than obvious and repeated, and harsh words ran unfiltered from his mouth, snatching me, pushing me to the ground and stepping on my head to break the skull box; and the way it is exposed is the expression that permeated the face of my beautiful mother, when she used to put her hand hesitantly on his arm and claim that it was only "a phase", "a passing passion." Or maybe it was the knot that formed in my throat and kept me from saying anything for the next few hours to see that Donna needed to lie to the beloved husband who did not put faith in the eldest because of stupid values when she encouraged me and little Michael to seek art, "because it is the only one capable of expressing any thought or feeling"; and perhaps the child curled up in the arms of winter and covered in the ice of which my hands have created almost by itself is the best way to define it.  
  
None of this is pain, however, just like painting was not a simple adolescent passion.  
  
Some say that the pain is the trigger that bursts the tears and makes them run down the face until it hangs in the chin and wet the ground that weak and wounded feet have dirtied. Others, even more religious, say that it is the lack of God's affection for repeated sins and something like weakening before "worldly temptations."  
  
Again, none of this is pain, though.  
  
It is difficult to clarify what pain is. I am not a poet who, with beautiful words, talks about and enchants all, but I can assert with all the conviction that exists in a human being that the pain goes far beyond the absurd sensation of hammering in an already weak heart that one has when something does not go as planned.  
  
Pain is emptiness.  
  
Not that one feels when the house, or any environment, is devoid of important people (or not so much); or that strikes when there is not something stimulating (or not) to be done and it is necessary to resort to stupid things to repulse the boredom that corrodes. It is that painfully daily gap that takes away all love from something that the hand had scratched to be made and made it something vague, as if it were being carried out by mere obligation and not by that almost endless passion; that desire to flee the world out of the cold room and remain under the thick covers in an almost eternal sleep until the desire to live comes back with force and, at the same time in contradiction, that eagerness to fill up with relevant activities or not to cover all the emptiness and avoid that much time is spent without doing something, because to be stopped makes think too much and to think too much can mean to suffer too much.  
  
But if there is one thing I have learned throughout life, it is that pain is absolutely unavoidable; suffering, however, is optional.  
  
That is, I can actually choose to continue to feel my stomach sink and burn strong as I lay my head on the pillow at night and realize that my day was completely in vain, staring at the sleeping city through the glass window of the room with heavy tears pinching the eyes; or I can push everything downhill like an avalanche and turn into crisp ashes, turning my back on the orange lights and fleeing through the dense grove ready to start over, even though I am old enough.  
  
However, I am not ready for a change. It's just so much easier to stay that way, so empty that I do not care about the country's pneumonia infestation, accustomed to the pain that plagues my days and nights and reflects on my already exhausted hands from the brushes I hold, stuck in a routine that It is already so monotonous and automatic thinking; that to fight for that strange thing called "self-love" and try to leave the embrace that the solitude makes me entangle every time that I open the eyes and I look at the sun behind the mountains covered with ice, starting from what is already common to me.  
  
Everything seems so complicated.  
  
I wake up in the morning feeling the biting cold that runs through the cracks in the windows. Beside me, the brushes still wet with paints and the sheets in dirty pastel colors of varied colors. I take a deep breath before jumping out of bed and watching the path that will lead to another day, another item from my doom list. The city is already awake; it is comical how those people seem happy to direct their little ones to school in the center and then move on to their seemingly more exciting chores than mine. And maybe they really are.  
  
Guadalupe wishes me good morning while I sit at the table set for breakfast. So that void created by the lack of people appears, even if it is not strong enough to ward off the pain. My dear housekeeper withdrew with an expression of pity, as if my mastery and I needed anything worth it. The table is full, but all that goes down my throat is the strong, hot cup of coffee in front of me. Nothing else.  
  
A sweet lady greets me on my way from the hills to the square where my destination is. My eyes check her for a moment; not critical, not arrogant; just ... Curious. The number of people in this village who do not act as if I were a complete madman who flees to the hills all the time to take care of a project without foot or head is very little. She smiles for a second, then grabs a fruit bucket and goes to her residence with an amusing animal attached to her heels. For a moment I stand there in the company of a shadow that no longer exists.  
  
The streets are full. Some children - those who are late - run down the sidewalks on the way to the School of Knowledge without being careful if they run into anyone; can be an elderly or other child, do not care. Adults seem very excited, even though I know the mask that covers each face there. Being observant sometimes has its advantages. And knowing how to recognize the lie on someone's face is probably the best.  
  
I stare at the green of a square that is said to be the most beautiful. Trees and flowers adorn the grass so alive, transforming the environment inhabited by large and small animals into something that can be considered the greatest creation of Mother Nature. I sit on a modest wooden bench falling to pieces near the lake that reflects the strong light of the sun and creates ripples on its surface, the suitcase lying on its lap and eyes turned to that mixture of colors so simple, but that bind me by... I do not know for sure, but I know for a long time.  
  
My encounter with the sun is cut short by a layer of thick hair and beautiful eyes. I lift my jaw ready to find her, though not even the shadow of a smile dare pass my dry lips. Hands on hips, as impatient, confers. Furrowed eyebrows in questioning, confers. Lips twisted in an angry grimace, confers.  
  
I sigh.  
  
"Good morning." I groan as I stare into those bright eyes. No reaction beyond a deep breath.  
  
"You're late. And in the wrong place."  
  
"I know that, my dear..."  
  
"Then to the right place, Gerard Way. Now."  
  
 _Just a little more patience._


	3. Green.

I feel like my real age is eighty nine, considering the way the world looks at me, and the way I look back to it; not just twenty nine.  
  
Jamia Nestor is the only living being able to tolerate my daily irascibility without refraining because of the black cloud hovering above my head. For eight years, I watched her try to fame in the big city from her lifelike paintings, until she finally returned with the much acclaimed notoriety and discovery of herself.  
  
In a studio near the city museum, there are a number of his paintings that mix with mine, which, although quite different, represent the same thing. The recurrence of dark colors in any work that is done between those broad walls of softer tones than the solitary nights of that northern city has become my torment in the last twenty-seven months, since the chocolate-colored eyes of that beautiful and weak woman, turned into the eternal love of an illustrious wealthy man who did not forget my face until he had that elaborate and beloved painting resting on the wall of his property. from such an episode, in which a heated discussion about the importance of the painting hung for countless hours, and my obstinacy refuted the man's cockroach proposals until he gave me enough money for my effort, I have received countless opulent ones like the damned who, unfortunately, they only accept my favorite works of art.  
  
Does that make me a happy man?  
  
Absolutely not.  
  
"Tell me who owns the beautiful eyes." Jamia stands behind me, her hands covered with paint squeezing the back of the chair where I sit and the narrow dark eyes scanning the figure in front of me. A short laugh almost escapes my lips.  
  
"You know who the mistress is, Nestor." Elucidate indicating the way the full lips fill the brownish tones of the young woman portrayed. My face acquiesces with the head as if I already know the answer and goes to the sink not far from where I am ready to rid her clear skin of the dirt caused by the green-moss color.  
  
"It's good to see you change a little, Gerard, but try to finish it, because noon is knocking at the door and my stomach is crying with hunger." She wears the yellow overcoat that stands out in her height - short, short - and she is waiting for me, who, with slower movements, I leave the thin brush aside and I migrate to the same sink she just used to get rid of the dirt that covered my fingers. Minutes later, his arm is gently passed by mine and we continue down the empty street to a partially expensive restaurant following a small but rich country like this. "Judith will probably be there, and my heart beats harder just to imagine how she must have trapped those hairs!" Judith... Judith... Her secret passion - not so secret to me - that makes my friend spend hours awake at night writing in a diary her fantasies and her plans for when the long-lived husband of the girl finds eternal rest and they can, finally, set foot in the world.  
  
"Not that my person is not in favor of your relationship ..." I hesitate, receiving his reproachful look in return, and I shrug my broad shoulders.   
  
"Do not start, Way," Jamia grumble.  
  
"But, my dear, is not it easier to let the damned die before you fall in love with the girl? Judith is a little over twenty, that's all they know, so you both have plenty of time to stick the bow."  
  
"I admire your concern, but my twenty-seven tell me what I can do with it." Nestor smiles courteously, leading me to the typical establishment.  
  
Mechanically, Jamia's dark eyes shine as we walk through the door after it has been politely opened, and we find the young Judith sitting next to her mother, in an almost mournful silence, dressed in white as a little bride and staring at her hands covered by gloves lodged in her lap. She immediately notices my friend's arrival and turns to it, the discreet expression of joy at finding the other permeating for a brief moment on her face before returning to her seemingly interesting hands, though I know that her only will is ignore her father's talk and run into the arms of the woman who sits at a table not too far away. And I know, after all, Judith is a pretty smart young woman. Last night I vowed to have seen her leap out of her husband's coarse bond, after having erased the old with too much drink, and run into the arms of her beloved, who waited patiently for her arrival, to copulate until the sunrise and the man threatened to wake up.  
  
"What do you want?" Robert's whispered voice reaches my ears like a melody the moment I open the menu, the soft tone screaming his submission to the others. A violent shiver runs through my body as his blue eyes fall on me and I smile as I feel the blood flee from various parts in a snap.  
  
"Give me the best of the house. To my friend, your best." Nestor blinks provocatively. The boy's pale cheeks take on a reddish hue as if he were taking a swing from his father. I receive confirmation of my companion's encouragement with a slow nod and a discreet bite of the lips. Jamia opens her hands. "Great! Bring us as fast as you can!" Robert acquiesces again and puts his hands behind his back to follow to the interiors of the place. My gaze follows him until he disappears. "Just tell me you're not making a boy fall in love."  
  
"You incite him, and I'm the one to blame?" My tone is low, like someone who tells a secret (and maybe it really is), and my hands flatten the table until they squeeze Jamia's arms. She shrugs, wry.  
  
"I'm just warning you that maybe it would be dangerous for both you and your mental health, Robert to fall in love with you. And I say, then, we both know that your history is not the best."  
  
"I hate when you're right, Nestor."  
  
"Do not act like I don't know, dear.

My human condition does not allow me to describe the feelings that cross my chest the moment the front door is opened and through it an Indian line of young people. The first, which I immediately recognize as Linda Pricolo, walks gracefully through the tables and leads the other seven - all her children, I suppose - to the nearest window. None of them look away from the nape of the neck in front of him, except for the last - a creature of extreme short stature, almost imperceptibly wider at the shoulders than at the hips, with eyes of a mixture of green and honey, long dar hair and skin a little crumpled to the place where he probably lives - he stops for a second and stares at me, conjectured. My body goes into shock and I feel the air lack instantaneously under those so beautiful eyes.  
  
The boy smiles, then runs to sit next to the woman before she notices his delay. _What a beautiful human being!_ I think animatedly, watching him pull the youngest kid into his lap. _He must not be fifteen_ , I go on, resting my hand on my chest, even though Jamia is looking at me, _but it's so beautiful that it does not matter if it's a man!_  
  
"Linda is so wonderful to a woman at her age that she even looks like a dolphin." Jamia comments analyzing the young lady. In the same second, I feel Judith's glare over her lover. An extravagant laughter ties to the knot in my throat by the recent ice, and I just shrug.  
  
"Say that when the little princess comes to your house at night." I grumble, head falling to the side the girl is. My friend laughs and analyzes the girl, making her turn red. I implore in nothing that his parents do not realize his sudden redness.  
  
"My dear knows how much I love her." She looks at the sideways girl, just as I do, and you can see the minimum smile that covers her doll's lips. The heavy weather scattered between the two, but the atmosphere around me is cool and I need a moment to forget and block the thoughts that start to appear in my head.  
  
"Right ... Can we leave this aside?" I ask after a long sigh. My face nods and smiles at the young Robert, who puts our plates on the table. He stares at me, then withdraws.  
  
When Jamia finishes, she rises and puts her arm through mine again. His gaze runs from Judith to Linda, who has not noticed our presence yet. My friend walks me out, turns right, and follows the side of the restaurant. Again the huge eyes of the last of the row fall upon me with curiosity and charm and a sweet smile of extremely straight and white teeth covers its pigmented lips. A violent shiver rises up my spine like a shock and bristles all the hairs that cover my body. My hand tries to touch the window, in an illusion of touching his face and massaging his protruding cheeks, but Nestor pulls me back as if guiding my will. The boy accompanies me, leaning to the side, until my route turns and I sum up the street, not being able to meet his eyes again.  
  
He does not leave my mind, not even as I sit in front of the table that interrupted for the meal. The woman keeps her smile pure and simple, as if nothing bad would happen to her, and her eyes wide open. The perfect figure of the perfect woman, as I had been told days before by the owner of such work, but my fertile imagination does not allow me to continue it, although I have spent good nights facing the creature trying to make it wonderful.  
  
"Do not say you'll start something new without finishing something old." Jamia growls at me, arms folded. An internal struggle forms to respond or ignore it and continue to seek a clean screen. "Gerard Arthur Way, do not dare to ignore me."  
  
"I'm not, darling, but an objection at the moment will not change my mind." I respond softly, with the white screen already in hand, looking at it in a form of censorship. Her angry expression makes me want to run. "Jamia, stay relaxed. I'm done with the damn painting."

It is almost impossible to explain the sensations that run through me. There is something that makes my left hand shake when I press the brush on the screen and trace the first line very carefully, but I do not know what it is. Never, ever, have I felt this way: nervous about a painting. It is comical, for I am soon bent over the paint box to reach the lower end of the painting and to remain steady on the roughest strokes and lighter on the sweetest, even angelic ones. That's when the brush travels, almost alone. I am euphoric, eager to finish, even though I know how difficult it will be to complete it at the moment. Jamia looks at me sideways, but does not say a word.  
  
I think it is my best work of the last days, but doubt corrodes. I am, in my early thirties and with my extensive repertoire of natural and unnatural woes, so innocent as to think it worth my time to spend my paints - which are not modest - my precious and tedious time and my hands so well cared for by portraying an image that I had only seen once in my life, and that perhaps I will never get close to anything like it?  
  
Absolutely not. I do not think myself innocent, or anything of the sort, nor silly for doing this. It is with love that I release the fine brush and stretch myself to take the cloth between my hands and remove the excess paint. My smile can not be more true, caught in the eyes of a peculiar color that mixes the green of the spring and the honey that flows from the colony of bees, as if only that small part of what would become my object of greatest pride in very little time was the best thing ever created by the hands of a man - and the hands that have the honor are mine.  
  
Nothing, besides that, may have made me so excited for tomorrow, when, in the most utopian expectation of a human being of my size, I will do my best to rediscover those lights.


	4. Michael.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say my first language isn't english (I'm from Portugal), so I'm still learning ;;

I only perceive how exhausted I am when the sun rises and burns over the city, pierced by the rain of the night before, and its beams almost blind as they pass through the cracks in the curtains of wine from the bedroom windows. The commonly unbearable pain in my head is there, strolling like one who does not want anything and preventing me from reasoning properly. I slip out of Bert's tightly closed arms, and he's asleep and exhausted from the effort of hours before. The woody floor gives me a creep and I need to pull the sheets to ward off the cold as I rise from the bed.  
"Gerd?" The boy's sleepy voice. He appears at the door of the bathroom with a shy expression, and automatically his cheeks turn red when meeting my eyes. "Uh... Good morning."  
"Good morning darling."  
He seems embarrassed by my supposed affection for directing a simple smile, even though this form of treatment is quite typical of me. He turns his back after pleading for leave and I hear her footsteps cross the wooden staircase. I can imagine him, as I close my eyes and touch the neck on the edge of the tub, going to the kitchen to prepare something - although in my personal opinion, cooking is not a talent of his own. Since Guadeloupe is at her son's house, I shall have to be alone today.  
My assumptions are confirmed as I walk down the stairs and encounter him with difficulty reaching for something at the top of the dispensary. I press my chest against his back, pulling the corners of my lips in a smile, watching him jump forward from the shock and take a deep breath as he stares at the bowl about to fall into my stretched hand. Bert's face warms and he shakes as he takes the porcelain, escaping from me to return to the kitchen.  
  
I stand in the same place, watching the way he sways from side to side, impatiently waiting for him to finish serving the table so I can finally sit down and taste to pretend I approve of what he prepares for me. And when he does, I thank him with a simple stroke over his cheek.  
  
"Strange that you're so fond of me this morning, Gerard." Robert comments as I fill my cup to the top with coffee. I smile with his naivety and acquiescence as if that were the true truth, but my only will is to laugh.  
  
I can do absolutely nothing about this boy's feelings for me. I do not think he's in love, as Jamia tried to warn me yesterday, but our dealings with physical intimacies have been broken on his part lately. I feel the way his gaze burns over me, as his hands pull at my hair to drown me in a long kiss that kills the moans that escape between my lips and how he smiles sweetly when he is kissed on the face before turning his back and go back home. Not that I do not care, Robert's mental health is relevant to me, and a passion for me as we maintain this relationship is capable of giving him hope by filling his core of these until he overflows like a river in the heavy rain and forces him to declare himself. Just to break into millions of pieces to discover that the man who began to fall for who has no interest in anything other than his lips or his cock.  
  
For the man who is supposed to love does not love.  
  
I do not forbid, however, to pamper him somewhat. Perhaps, being overjoyed, make him imagine that I feel something, considering that the mind of a twenty-year-old who has never known love is quite fertile in this kind of question, as if we could become a love story like the songs by my brother, and doubtless this will be the most painful way for me to die; Or maybe I'm just finding myself more than I'm about to enchant the eyes of the one who feels nothing but physical attraction to me and should continue to give me his performances on my body while I do not show (and I do not feel) any interest and wanted to please him to make all my fantasies.  
  
At the moment, the option that suits my own well-being is the second one.  
  
Bert tucks a lock of my hair behind his ear and lays a chaste kiss on my neck then walks down the hill and heads toward the city about to rise, though it stings a bit. I resign myself, with a sigh, to wait for his figure to ascend through the large trees that lead to the Toamna so that I can go back inside and escape the heat that this early morning brings.  
  
There is a dearth of souls in my house. The sun that enters through the few windows scattered over three floors makes a shadow, is weak, as if it were late afternoon, and I find nothing but the pale man in the reflection of the mirror on the other side of the room that reminds me of the solitary days of my childhood, when my favorite hobby was to lock myself in the colorful world that my room had become over the years to escape from the gray that adorned any other place on the planet. I close my eyes and sigh; I'm not at home in my own house.  
  
An hour later, I walk down the stone road, trying in vain to admire the pale blue of the sky that tells the end of summer and the beginning of autumn, my favorite time, as I feel the wind lick my face, until it reaches the wooden bridge over the lake that cuts through the city, finding Jamia waiting patiently with a friendly smile on her lips.  
  
Automatically, I know she spent the night with Judith.  
  
My friend lays a chaste kiss on my face as she wishes me a good day, although I know that this is not really a compliment in my opinion, and the desire to laugh begins to corrode me. She is radiant, as if she wakes up on the first day of spring ready to renew herself and everything around her, and her eyes shine like two very expensive jewels. Content with a nod and an entwining of our arms so that we can follow through the bridge to the city.  
  
Jamia speaks and speaks and speaks about the jealous assault her "little girl" had on account of her comments, both in the restaurant and during her meeting, about Linda Pricolo and her extreme beauty, and about how she managed to convince the little girl Judith that loved her, and the beauty of the other woman is nothing at all before her blue eyes. I watch her with a raised eyebrow, tightening my lips to keep an ironic laugh from escaping between my lips, and I hope the speech will end soon before anyone else notices our existence.  
  
We arrived at the studio in a few minutes. Everything is dark, opposing the sun that begins to shine stronger outside, in a pitch that makes me take a deep breath and contemplate the morbid tone that our paintings take in the faint light that comes through the small breach of the door. My moment of reflection is cut by the lights on and the revelation of works and more work, finished or not, in more than symmetrical rows along the corridor walls leading to the main room.  
  
Nestor goes ahead of me after leaving the yellow coat on the jamb, her fine fingers walking through some of her favorites, until it comes to an end and turns to one side, completely disappearing from my sight. I scratch my eyes with my knuckles and follow her slowly.  
  
The unfinished picture is there. His vivid eyes like never before greet me with the happiness and innocence they exude, and the shadow of a smile pierces my lips as I sit on the bench facing it. The little boy seems to ask how my mood goes, and Í shake my head like I'm saying I do not want to talk about. I have no right to shake your apparent nirvana.  
In the next second, my hands again work on their traits. As fine as the tip of my brush and as soft as a girl's, bathing it in delicacy and purity unknown to me, no matter how much the masculinity present in its square eyebrows exists. I feel Jamia's gaze on me, in a somewhat lengthy analysis, until I hear her footsteps away.  
  
So entertained in my craft, the brush running around the increasingly beautiful eyes to give shape to the face that never tire of playing in my mind, sometimes smiling from that unique way or just staring at me with its full circular orbs of curiosity, flying from the screen with only a tiny part covered up to my favorite paint palette given by my deceased grandmother, who had kept to use it only in something that I liked, as in recent times nothing has done; I do not realize when Nestor's heavy shoes make a toc behind me, running to the door that had just been beaten a few times, and my friend comes back with a not too tall and quite thin figure that stays right behind me, his hat under his arm and the typical expression molded on his face, as if he wanted to show the man he is - although "real men" do not seek help.  
  
"Honey, Michael's here." Jamia uttered with one hand on my right shoulder, away from the hand holding the brush. I thank her mentally for your act, knowing that any touch anywhere on the left side of my body would have spoiled my work completely. I spread the small object next to the palette and turn the chair to face the fresh out of adolescence.  
  
"What do you want?" I groan at hearing him sigh quietly. With just one look, I ask my friend to leave, and she does, claiming she needs to visit the upper floor. When Michael open his mouth, I interrupt him. "I do not have the money to give you now, Michael, so do not ask." Being arrogant with my brother has never been any kind of novelty to the people who live around us; everyone knows how he can be self-interested once in a while. But when I see the way his eyes are bent to the ground for a brief moment and his lips are bitten hard before you try again, I feel my heart skip a beat and a pang of regret play in my chest, but I stand firm; there were few times when someone saw me with some kind of emotion after eighteen.  
  
"Alicia is waiting for my son." He does not do a ceremony. And that's when I freeze, staring at him as he sit in the chair my friend had once been.  
  
Alicia Simmons, a young woman of no more than nineteen and beautiful blue eyes, my brother's fiancé for a very short time and daughter of rich and extremely severe parents. I barely know the girl, but the few times we've been in the same environment, I've noticed how passionately she is for my brother; just as I pretended to be. But I hato to say that I think her pregnancy is absurdly anticipated to be a good thing. Not because I know that I will never be able to have a child coming from me, but by absolute certainty that this will bring many problems, both familiar and of any kind, to my brother and his fiancee.  
  
I breathe noisily and shake my head at a request to continue. He swallows visibly dry, exhaling apprehension, and proceeds:  
  
"I need you to..." a pause. "Haul her in your house for a while, until this epidemic in the capital passes and we can... You know, have, finally, our life." One breath. I bend to put my elbows on my knees and rest my chin on the palm of my hand, still shocked. "It's not easy being an artist, brother, and I know this is no surprise to you, that you survive it and know your ups and downs, but... There is still faith in me that I can give everything my beloved wants. Do you understand?"  
 _  
Uh... nop._  
  
"Ark with the consequences of your actions, Michael." He says he's such a follower of the Bible, so believing, but he does not wait until his marriage to own a nineteen-year-old girl. "You say so _man_ , so mature, but you have to turn to me for not being able to deal with the immense responsibility of caring for a pregnant woman." I see the hardness of my words snatches him and his eyes fill with tears momentarily. My intention is not to be cruel, it's just... Just try to warn him, maybe that's the word, about any change that will destructure his life.  
  
Internally, I pray to any greater force not to let it cross everything his brother went through.  
  
"It's for a little while, Gerard. Have pity. You know how hard it is to create a successful career in times of epidemic, so you should not crucify me so much." He tries one more time. And I succeded. "Alicia will not be a guest, she will be able to assist Guadalupe in her activities during the first two quarters, and before the baby is born we will be far enough away for no one to bother about being too early." He implores with his eyes as he lifted them over the expression that was molded in utter despair, his hands on his lap and his hat already fallen to the ground. And I succumb again. "Please. I never... I never asked for anything."  
  
And I would appreciate it if he had continued like this.  
  
I do not know what to answer. At the same time that I want to make him charge, to mature by force by the stab he has just received and to become a man so that he does not have to resort desperately for help, I want to support him after all, although my relationship with Michael in my humble opinion does not pass due to blood ties and our rigid parents, he is... My little brother, and just a frightened child who tries to follow a dream that is strongly repressed by all the factors that surround him.  
  
I feel the presence of Jamia nearby, and I turn my head to find her in the corridor with crossed arms against her stuffed chest and extremely worried eyes. She hears the conversation, I know that, and the way she looks at me brings a small pinch of calm to the whole tense atmosphere that surrounds me and my brother, deep down I know that her heart beats as fast as mine and she just wants Michael to be crazy.  
  
I try to relax against the chair, and I stare at my feet dragging across the woody floor.  
  
"I hope Alicia knows how to work in a kitchen." I pray when I lift myself up. Jamia let out a breath of air in the distance and looked at me as if I were a complete nutcase, but I ignore her alert with vehemence. "Bring her on the Saturday before sunrise so no one will notice. I'll get her on the first floor, and I hope you do not get me in trouble, Michael."  
  
"Thank you for your help, brother." There's emotion in your voice. He returns to look disinclined, though. My hand massages his shoulder as the doorway is opened by the brunette and I practically push him toward it, as if to say that it is nothing, even though I know that having a pregnant woman in the same environment as I will become my damnation.  
  
Michael bids farewell to my friend and heads down the other street. I get a hard look from the woman and I shrug my shoulders under that obvious accusation, but none of us dares say anything and return to our respective jobs.  
  
I watch the day pass quickly. The sun is replaced by brownish clouds that drop a drizzle and are soon drifting away, like someone knocking at the door just to greet and exchange brief words before turning away and going elsewhere, leaving the master of the house completely confused. Jamia did not speak to me, as she would normally do, chatting about anything just so that the sound coming from the instrument was not the only one filling the environment, killing our ears of boredom while our hands run excited; She kept humming something unintelligible to me, her voice anasalada barely reaching as far as she was, as if she wanted to ignore me. She seems preoccupied with the fact that Alicia begins to reside in my house, stopping now to face her right hand away from the screen, sometimes to bite her lips observing the time through the windows. But I do not try to make her speak.  
  
When the evening comes, to which the sky is replaced by orange tones and then purplish by the sunset, I feel the muscles of my body complain. I wash my hands in the sink not far from there and return to my work. It is not even close to being completed, considering that during the day my only focus was on how his tapering nose complements the eyes of inaccurate color, effeminating it, and his skin is of a glow not very familiar to me. I smile, for a miracle I smile, and I feel pride dancing through my core as I turn my back on the work after admiring it for a while. For a long time painting with love is not a privilege to me, and knowing that my only will is to turn nights and nights completing the image of that boy fills me with a happiness that has not inhabited since... Since the painful death of my beloved Lindsey.  
  
Nestor waits for me at the side of the jamb, her hands clasped in front of her body and her gaze fixed on any point, however much she does not really see it. I give her an arm in silence, lock the door and follow the streets still clear. The cold of the North arrives quickly, the wind hits my face and pulls my hair partially long from my face and neck.  
  
"You know you'll have trouble with Alicia in your house." Jamia finally says something. Stopping for a moment so that we can face each other, she sighs. "In a short while, her belly will begin to grow... and grow... and you will not stand it, Gerard. You know that very well."  
  
"I cannot say I like the idea of having a young girl in my house, especially since there's a time when she will not be able to climb stairs, but... my brother needs me." Nestor seems impressed by my change at my words. I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. "I've been cruel to Mikey for over fifteen years, it does not hurt to help him with something like that."  
  
"This will not work. I'm warning you." She scolds, and gives me the arm again.  
  
I might have thought myself annoying when I shook my head at the naughty sound of shouts and laughter. We passed the other side of the park, close enough to the lake and the small groups that began to form there to watch the sun disappear behind the dense forest on the opposite side of the mountains. Among these small groups I watch closely, as if it were a sniffer dog behind a criminal, with an expectation that grows rapidly upon hearing a laugh from a voice neither thick nor thin, I find him. His back propped against the trunk of a huge tree, his butterfly-bent legs with the smallest of the group on that, his head tilted back and relaxed on the peeled wood, his arms tilted to the sides of his body, eyes closed, hiding the wonderful color of such, and an open smile drawn on her pigmented lips.  
  
A violent shiver runs through my body as I gaze at him, open his eyes carefully and disappear slowly with his resplendent smile as if the joke is over and now he just wants to hear something else. He looks at the girl in his lap and how she looks tired, squatting against his chest. He is so beautiful, but so absurdly and unacceptably beautiful, that I must look away from his face when I feel him turn to me as if by the heavens for the people around him. And there's Linda, in her pearl-colored dress, next to a row of beautiful girls and a light-eyed redhead. Beside the redhead there is a man.  
  
And my heart recognize him.  
  
"Is Linda married to Frank Iero?" I ask Jamia, shaking from head to toe. My friend gives me a strange look, but shifts her shoulders subtly.  
  
"Since she was fourteen years old, my dear, when she went to the capital." Answer me as if it were obvious. I feel momentarily stupid, opening my mouth in surprise as I watch the old man smile at the woman, even from a distance, and seem proud of his large family.  
  
Frank Iero, my not-so-beloved former School and University Arts teacher. He must not be less than 60 years old and remains with that intimidating demeanor, as one who discovers all your sins just by looking at you. Knowing that the object of my admiration and inspiration comes from the man I met, deep in the core of a seven-year-old boy, a talent for some incredible and some banal, disorganizes me like nothing before by the disappointment that can corrode his soul if he realizes that the reason why my hands were created for such an office, which is painting, is his dear son.  
  
I feel the breath freeze in the knot forming in my throat.  
  
"You should say hello." Nestor comments innocently, almost walking toward the man and his family. I censor her with a look. "Right. Sorry. Let's go home."  
 __  
To the house that is not your home, dear.


	5. Seven whole days.

I remember hearing the boy giggle again as I walked away in the company of my friend. His day seemed to be one of the best, and I had to restrain myself from turning around, leaning against the other tree, and admiring him until his parents decided it was time to go. I remember wanting to hold him tight; and now I remember that it's been seven whole days.  
  
Seven days that I do not see my dear and my hands remain locked and shaken holding a brush lined with clear paint. Seven days Jamia frowns at me and asks if I'm okay if I need some weed to calm me down. Seven days that Guadalupe left the kitchen after realizing the inexistence of my appetite. Seven days, facing the sky, I wonder if anything happened to my boy.  
  
I assume that my concern has eroded me little by little during this week. Every night I lie on the grass in front of my house, which Richard takes care of as if his life depends on it (and it depends), hands behind my head like a pillow and my eyes fixed on the ever so dark and almost devoid of stars. One of them runs there, big, beautiful. Donna says, since my childhood, that they called it Venus because of the appearance; is the most beautiful planet, and what attracts me most attention.  
  
My boy is just like Venus.  
  
And I'm afraid. These days, I have watched my brother appear at my house to check his bride's state and the two walk through the trees to the almost unknown lake at the back of the large estate to talk about their plans and randomness or just exchange caresses before is the time that I turn off the lights so everyone can sleep; and it's annoying to see the way those passionate hearts complete so well when all I can think of is the urge to search every corner of that city behind the little boy so I can hold him and say the sensations that plague me every time I remember his eyes and smile. But it is not possible and hearing my own voice whispering promises of possessing it for eternity is all that I have left for the moment. What if I never get to see him again? No. I forbore to think of something like that again; if I never find the little boy again I will not be able to finish that work and I'll go back to the automatic, letting images and ink slip from my mind to blank screens for the rest of my life as a miser.  
  
My sleep is no longer pleasant to me and I fall face down on the mattress like someone who falls dead after being hit in the back. The warm temperature of the bed, counteracting the biting cold and miserable outside, embraces me the moment that I cover myself to the head with the thick sheets of lead. I feel more lonely than usual; my own room becomes nothing but my personal hell for hours and hours as I watch the leaves fly by the breeze through the open windows of the porch, and I hear the noise of small animals roaming the forest.  
  
So it's when the sun rises and I do not feel the slightest desire to get out of bed to face another day staring at my boy's unfinished painting from afar, with no excitement and drive to continue, to which a smiling woman is almost complete. But Jamia needs me, and I find myself obliged to get out of my almost useless retreat to take the longest bath of my life before descending the stairs to find the young Alicia taking the table from the coffee. She addresses the word to me, and goes out into the kitchen.  
  
Nestor is at my door. His hands are restless, his fingers pounding one by one in the briefcase creating a rapid pace, impatient expression and it is obvious that the stress thermometer is at a dangerous level. The door behind me is closed delicately - as if in a miracle - and at the same instant my back is thrown against the wood in a tight embrace. What can I do with this absurdly exaggerated act of affection? Put my hand on her back and have her take a deep breath.  
  
"It's time to go, Jamia. It's late." I whisper cautiously. My friend walks away at once, scratching her knuckles with her knuckles, and takes a deep breath, shaking her head.  
  
"I'm not fit to work today, my dear." She's cold.  
  
"Tell me why." Instigate, giving her arm so we can continue down the stone path to the road, but she swerves to the right and pulls us away from where she normally would go, going around the house.  
  
"Let us walk through the woods to the neighboring city; I'll tell you why." A pause. She seems to notice my eyebrows furrowing, and my mouth opens to challenge her. "We'll be back before nightfall. I promise."  
  
I wonder if, instead of just wrapping our elbows, I should hug her to comfort her. They say that this is what friends do, hug, kiss and care for too much. But I cannot do this with the only person who keeps me standing, holding me by the shoulders and telling me to act like a man, beating my back when green goo comes out of my lips and taking care that I do not fall apart. Honestly, I feel like doing it and taking care of Jamia when she needs it, but something stops me. And I do nothing to stop it from stopping me.  
  
We go down the hill awkwardly; my honey is so weak that an endless list of reasons for such black humor is forming in my head and the only thing that fills all the items is Judith. We go through the trees with the slow dawn of this day. The silence of my friend is uncomfortable; I would usually be angry because I have to listen to her talk about everything that is around us and not shut up for hours, but at the moment I have the urge to shake her and ask her to say anything, to praise the glow of the sun, to complain about the schedule, to comment on my clothes, to do not act as if she were at the funeral.  
  
I notice that we are already far away when I can breathe softly. We passed the hills without realizing it and now we are at sea level. The road to the city is made of a kind of mud road and in a short time we will be in the tourist center. Then, suddenly, Jamia sits down; without bothering about bacteria, without realizing that the dress is dirty and not paying attention to the fact that I am in astonishment.  
  
I think about what happens, so I fall next to her.  
  
"Is it Judith?" My voice is too soft for the ordinary. At the same time I do not want to press her, I'm curious to eat my bones. She shakes her head.  
  
"Two nights ago I was waiting for her across the street, doing my best to hide in the darkness behind the poles when I saw her try to leave the house at the same time. She was as beautiful as ever. I do not know what happened, and I also do not know how I did not notice the upstairs lights being turned on as soon as the door was opened, but Klaus picked it up the moment she stepped out onto the sidewalk. He yelled at her as if it were nothingness, a slave who did not meet the goal of the day. I was frozen, paralyzed; I could do nothing but bow my head and listen to that rain of quiet cursing." My friend takes a deep breath, trying to contain the lack of air that comes from the tears that are leaving her eyes. I stroke her hand briefly. "I saw him push my princess to the uneven ground without pain to hurt her, rising up in her fragile body to shake and beat her; and unable to do anything to protect it. Not because Klaus was stronger than I was, but because if he found out that his wife's reason for leaving late at night was another woman, Judith would certainly have serious problems, running the risk of being put on the street at the mercy of monsters who will stone her like saints. I could only see and cry in silence. I did not have the strength to escape." She sobs and falls forward, hiding her wet face in her hands.  
  
"Jamia..." I try to stop her, but she shakes and she raises her head.  
  
"Judith should be marked by my kisses and caresses, not by the gross hands of Klaus Hudson! And it was not enough just beat her to the front of the house, so that they would be curious to see them through the windows when they heard her screams, he had to humiliate her when she walked around the city with his fingers tied tightly to her arm as he wanted to show the man he is, to the world that his wife is nothing but a slut who had received what she deserved." Nestor sighs before wiping the salty drops that creep up to his chin. "Since then, I only see her as I pass by her house, meeting her at the window with her sad eyes and... God, Gerard, and I can do nothing! Taking care of Judith at the moment is unfeasible and... My heart, dear. My heart hurts."  
  
I do not know what to do when I feel her body fade over mine and I need to protect her before she gets hurt by the fall. My arms wrap her tightly against my chest so that she falls apart, wet my blouse as it suits her, and let her eyes dry.  
  
How on earth did I not notice the pain that plagued and plundered my friend's heart? I was so worried that I had not seen my boy in the last days that I completely ignored the world and the problems of those around me. Jamia's silence was not, as I thought, from my almost palpable sadness and a respectful waiting for my mood to improve. As she lowered his head without reason, pushing the brush off the screen and sighing heavily, and staring at a fixed point for countless minutes, a sneaking cry escaped his cheeks; Then she would repress it to prevent me from seeing her weakness. My selfishness hindered me, imprisoned me in my own mind and turned me into a being unworthy to be called a friend.  
  
I feel the guilt burn like hell when I hear a sob.  
  
"You should not cry so hard at something like that, Jamia." I whisper against her hair. Her eyes lie on me in confusion; and I feel like the worst human being in existence, but dealing with someone as important as this crying woman is not an easy thing to do. "This is not the first time you're barred from seeing young Judith. You are always so strong. Why cry now?"  
  
"Because I'm tired of the way this man treats my beloved." Her chin shakes like one who does the impossible to contain a cry. Not that it succeeds, of course.  
  
"Can you do anything to change that?" My intention is not to be rude, but I hear my voice louder and harder than usual. Nestor scratches her eyes, taking away any remnants of makeup she had been there long ago. The painful sound can easily be matched by a cannon shot against my chest.  
  
"No, I can not."  
  
"Then do not mourn something you can not change."  
  
I feel the shock of my own words catch me. Jamia opens and closes his mouth at times in a row, but no sound comes out of the back of his throat. I look away almost instantly, too guilty to receive that judgment and at the same time concern. My only desire is to stand, turn my back, and disappear. Get out of the world for a moment, like the body of a sailor thrown out of the ship some months or even forever, to think about what just slipped through my lips.  
  
I'm just scared, because Jamia feels the same as I have long enough to know that this will never happen. But she can wait until everything is back to the way she wants it to be, because it will hapen someday time again. She can turn around and retrieve all the time she will lose waiting for the dust to descend to Judith's side, so this week's event will be ignored and even forgotten.  
  
I'll never be able to wait. And maybe that's what scared me when I put my hand in my own mouth as if I'd blasphemed. The guilt for my words eats me, and my stomach sinks when I am aware of the whole situation that was employed in that simple sentence. Nestor embraces his own body as if she wants to protect himself from a monster; and the monster that intimidates her is me.  
  
It's me and my biggest problem: my wife. Or what's left of it.

  
**Ω**

  
The sun is falling when we get close to the city. Jamia loosens my arm reluctantly and, whispering a "see you tomorrow" dragged, turns away to go to her house, where I'm sure the darkness awaits in place of Judith.  
  
Even though my day is crap and my mind begs to return to my residence for a rest, a small spark of hope to see my boy surround my heart. I know it's unfair to my friend; while she suffers from not being able to look at her lover without feeling terrible anger, I am searching the streets of the city for a boy who only knows that he owns the Iero surname.  
  
I see people scatter and the streets empty as night comes. Fairs are closed and lights are on. My legs weigh on the way to the main restaurant in town, which is almost completely full, except for a single empty table. I follow through the people, not really noticing the stares burning on my figure, even near the kitchen, where put the hands behind the body and wait patiently.  
  
Bert appears through the door in a few seconds. The boy gasps as he sees me in front of him, and his teeth grind. For some reason, I think this is a warning for me to speak soon, because it is in working hours and it is not appropriate for us to be seen together. I shake my head, and, keeping my voice as firm as possible, if anyone approaches, I declare:  
  
"You have half an hour, Robert. And I hope you've had plenty of rest.  
  
His blue eyes seem frightened, but there is a confirmation behind them. I just turn my back on him and return out, knowing that in no time he would have a well-thought-out justification for giving his boss the early exit.  
  
And as always, I'm right. I am only given time to remove the suit and send Alicia and Guadalupe to their respective rooms, wishing them good night and putting out the lights of the first floor; and then I hear him climbing the stairs at the bottom of the house to my room. His arms surround me as I close the door and hungry lips attack my neck, no matter how my hand gripped his waist intimidates him not to leave a mark.  
  
My body is pushed against the bed hidden by the curtains and soon his hip is over my in slow, almost rehearsed movements. A howl is contained by my teeth clutching his mouth, fearful that one of the women downstairs will hear something and come and snoop on what I do.  
  
Again, my selfishness dominates me and in a few minutes I'm hurting the boy's body, no matter how much the bites on my ear might tell otherwise. I watch him fall on me and rub his face across my chest in a need that I have become accustomed to endure during the cold dawn; I hold him tightly, and he's about to go to sleep.  
  
Not that Bert's body does not satisfy me - he does more than anyone else could, no doubt - but the last remnant of humanity in me asks for something more. My body asks for a little more soul. _Just a little more soul._  
  
"Gerd?" He calls, sly. I frown as I stare at him. His clear eyes shine.  
  
"Say it." My voice is grave, almost severe.  
  
"I love you."  
  
 _Right._


	6. Pray.

I feel trapped in a world without sound.  
  
Bert is still on my chest, and I resiste the urge to caress his black hair when I compared him to a cat's cub, but merely admire his rather effeminate and delicate physiognomy. I cannot lie and say that this young man is not extremely handsome, no matter how far he is to Venus, with the pale skin of his face and rosy, thin lips complementing his eyes in a tone close to the blue of the sky - but I am unable to say that I am supposed to want it as my love.  
  
I love Robert's beauty, not all of it.  
  
The boy moans, wriggles against my body and opens his eyes slowly. He looks at me almost childishly, with a sweet little smile and a little shy playing on his lips, and entangle my hair in his fingers to kiss me, stealing all the air I have left to suck my tongue. I need to stop him before his morning erection turns on mine.  
  
"I hope you had a good night, Gee." He whispers in a rather hoarse voice, stretching himself briefly to rise and sit on my thighs carefully. I think he may have heard some of my conversations with Michael to know the nickname I gained at eight, but I ignore it and massage his face.  
  
It's strange to prove Bert after knowing that he loves me. I feel that I am filling him with hope, as I am afraid to do, when I hold him in my lap so that we can look at each other correctly. His cheeks turn red when he notices that I stare him, as if he wants to say something, but either he does not know how to start or he does not have the courage.  
  
"Are you sorry you said you loved me?" I ask in a velvety voice. This seems to surprise him, for he widens his eyes a little and presses his lips into a rigid line. He is bewildered by my exaggerated love of the last days. I watch him shake his head slowly.  
  
"I do not say I'm sorry, but I do not want our relationship to change." Sigh. "I told you the truth when I said I loved you, even though I know we'll never get anything but sex."  
  
"Am I that cruel?" I moan, snorting a nervous laugh at once.   
  
"No, no! It's just that..." He lowers his eyes to the gap between our bodies as if measuring the words. An unknown and frightening desire to hug him to stroke him runs me. I need to kick him away before it comes to fruition. "I have to marry my youngest cousin in a few months. Our parents demand grandchildren and do not want to give up the 'clean blood' of our family." He twists his face in an angry grimace. "Soon I will not be able to spend the night with you and..."  
  
"I do not want to miss seeing you so soon, Bert." I say, one hand on my chin and the other brushing at his wrist. He takes a deep breath.  
  
"I do not want to miss seeing you _at all_. I did not lie when I said that I loved you, therefore, I love you. So much." I move uncomfortably. From my mind passes the thought of what it must be like to declare to someone who makes no effort to correspond; and I hope this boy will abandon his young love as soon as possible. "Sorry, Gerard. I think I'd better go home."  
  
Robert crawls out of our bond easily, escaping from the hands that try to keep him. He walks to the bathroom, where his extra clothes are kept, to hide the purple and reddish marks that cover a large part of his chest and back. It seems small in my eyes, as if my expression were worse than a public square shooting. However, I can do nothing to change my lack of feelings toward him.  
  
I follow him and stop at the doorjamb, watching the clumsy way he puts his pants on. I lean to help him, buckling his belt properly. Bert frowns at the exaggerated approach and this puzzles me, almost forcing me to retreat a few steps and leave him alone.  
  
"You're off today, and it's only dawn. Stay for a while." I beg him, already properly dressed and with drops of water dripping from his hair. I bring him to my arms. This time, he does not stop me and I pull him to a hug. If Jamia were here, she would say that I am desperate and frightened. Not that it's true, obviously.  
  
"You do not want me here and stop acting like you want to." He growls, trying to pull away from my grip. "You made that clear when you said nothing."  
  
"Bert..."  
  
"I'll see you at lunch, Way."  
  
It hurts in my heart to see him turn his back and run to the back stairs, already knowing that Guadalupe is in the kitchen preparing the coffee for young Alicia. The problem is that it does not hurt as much as it has hurt in the days that I do not see Venus and that makes me a... Cruel man, as he tried to deny.  
  
I know I will not find Jamia in the studio, which automatically discourages me. Being in that empty place is depressing, and my psychological situation is not good enough for me to be able to endure the loneliness that will plague me even with the countless paintings scattered on the walls and on the floor. I then decide that I will wait for lunch to meet my brother.  
  
As long as that time is not enough, I hope to just sit on the porch stairs staring at the seagulls that seem frightened by the approaching storm. May any force not let me face it on the way.  
  
"Gerard, coffee's ready." Alicia appears at the door of the residence, meowing. She cringes against the doorway when she feels my accusatory gaze for having interrupted my nonexistent reflection on life and walks in, leaving space for me to pass. I follow.  
  
"I'm afraid you're afraid of me, Donavan." I comment when I sit at the head of the table, to which the girl sits in the chair next to me. She places his hands on her lap, then sighs.  
  
"I'm not afraid, but I think if I do something wrong, I'll have to go back to my mother's house. And she certainly will not accept me this big." The voice is whispered, as if any higher syllable irritated me. I do not know if I thank you for the imposing image she have of me or if I feel worse that I'm already giving the wrong emotion to the girl.  
  
"I promised Michael I'd take you in until you could move to the capital." Alicia finally looks up at me, impressed. I continue after a sip of the coffee. "And one thing I've learned from my unhappy father, is that I must fulfill my obligations. Then you will not return to your mother's house unless you want to." The cup is still close to my lips when the last words slide out. It's as if I have to be nice to the people around me to be nice to Venus.  
  
"I do not want." She responds with a smile, runs her hand over her belly a little swollen and visible and looks away from my face. I shake my shoulders.  
  
"Then you will not leave here anytime soon."

  
**Ω**

  
"While you were getting ready, Ali told me you are treating her well, Gerard." Michael comments as we sit in the outside area of the restaurant that he had chosen for our meeting. He takes off his hat and runs his musical hands through the strands, sighing. I watch every movement lazily dropped on the chair. "Impress me."  
  
"I have no choice." My brother's gaze is disgusted, at a very obvious warning that my person should not treat his bride like a stone in his shoe. As much as I find such a thing almost every time I see her trying to play some music on Lindsey's piano. "What do you want to talk to me about?"  
  
"Your opinion on what to do with Alicia and the child is indispensable so that I can talk to our parents." He pauses and waits for some response. I nod, telling him to continue, to which the waiter gives us a couple of menus. "I'm afraid we need to get on with the wedding before the belly grows too big and everyone realizes." Michael seems frightened by the idea of running the date, which is set to be three months from now, a few weeks after his bride's twenty-year birthday. I stop for a second, trying to go back fifteen years to the time when my advice was worth it and the boy felt anxious and honored to hear them. He's desperate right now.  
  
"Your only alternative is to wait for the child to be born and marry as soon as the girl get slim again." I lean over the table just to get closer and reinforce what I say as an order, and Michael holds his breath. "If you do, everyone will realize there's something there. Alicia was always slim, slender, too sensual..." I move my hands theatrically, making him roll his eyes. It annoys me instantly. I hate them rolling their eyes at me. "And magicaly, she appears swollen and in loose clothing. Everyone will see that she is pregnant and you will spend your whole life being singled out as the couple who did not respect the law of sex after marriage." And of course I can not help poking the ounce with a short stick.  
  
Not that I give a priest and accuse my brother of his acts when I do basically the same thing. The difference I have seen between me and Michael is that my brother never assumes his acts, and Alicia's pregnancy is one of them. He has always preached so much about holiness, about waiting, and about all those things that most religious fanatics preach and pretend to follow when in fact they only speak, speak, and speak a little more. Then his bride appears pregnant and I realize that he has no right to comment on my practices-as he has done since he saw me a widower-because I assume them, even if I do not give details. Details are always a problem.  
  
Just like the hypocrisy of my young brother.  
  
Michael leans on the back of his chair and begins to think about what I said, pressing his hat between his thin fingers and staring at the plate that has just arrived in front of him. I want to get up and get away from here, but I just relax against the cushion and face the statue of the founder of the city in the square across the street.  
  
I think I have the opportunity to go to the place where Bert works and call him to talk and then apologize for my lack of expression. Even if I do not love him and know that I will never be able to do it, what the boy feels is important to me. Obviously I do not want to be the one to blame for someone else dying of love in the songs.  
  
"You're right." My brother finally speaks, attracting my attention. The shadow of a smile runs down my face, almost making it clear how well I feel myself rubbing the face of that poor boy that everything I say is the truth. I content myself with a shrug. "I'll go and talk to Alicia tonight. Tomorrow, with our parents. I'll make up an excuse, either about superstition."  
  
"Tell them they want to marry on the day you met the first time."   
  
"Just like you and Lindsey."  
  
The mention of the name makes me fold my arms and shrug, hoping he will continue even if he knows that nothing else that matters matters to me. At the same time I assume I miss her, I do not. Before my wife, the fear of being everything I knew was corroded, for I had never had the support, love, and understanding of anyone around me to be free without the guilt going through my head and saying I was just being reckless.

So that's when I found her and owned her. Lindsey accepted me even with all my eccentricity, loved me even with my rudeness, took care of myself with my maturity and was my companion even in the moments when I felt more lonely. And perhaps this whole love, this whole care, has contributed to my acceptance, both of her death and of my condition. With Lindsey and her affection, I realized that everything that constituted my being were conditions, not behaviors. And being aware of this was only the first step in understanding me that I can live and be free without anybody's duty and making sure that what I do is not as disgusting as they say.  
  
It's just what I am.

Michael continues to babble about how he will persuade our parents to postpone the marriage for a few months and hide the child from everyone - I hope it does not involve me too. I am capable of anything but caring for a newborn. Children are only adorable if they are far from me.  
  
"Leave me alone, Bob!" A voice screams in the distance, like the howls that cover the forests around Toamna at dawn and prevent the most fearful from falling asleep. My brother seems to ignore it, just interrupting his words to bring food to his mouth, but my first instinct is to turn my head to find the owner of the voice.  
  
Near the gigantic statue, a small figure moves gracefully and quickly. It seems to dodge someone, slipping through the white benches scattered across the grass, using his hands as impulses and dropping random words that I can not capture.  
  
Venus flees from a blond creature, which, were it not for its strongest type, might be a blond Robert.  
  
The relief that covers me is indescribable. I want to run from where I am and take it in my arms as a city takes the rain that falls after an extensive drought. I want to kiss his face and plead with him that he never disappears like that, making me so worried that I lose my appetite and sleep. I want to keep him with me and prevent the creature that pursues the touch.  
  
But I can only sigh and pretend that the shaking of the boy's hair is no more interesting than my brother's voice.  
  
"Gerard, are you listening to anything I say?" Michael catches my eye with a knock at the table that makes everything vibrate. My eyes fall on him slowly.  
  
"I heard everything." I smile, but I know that it only makes his thinking come true that I did not hear anything that went away. When I finally think I'm being a less hated brother...  
  
"Great." He reached up, shoved his hands into his pocket to pull a few bills and shoot me, then left. "I see you at night, Way."  
  
Well, at least I can admire Venus without feeling guilty.  
  
My boy does not run away from his... Friend, I think. He sits down on one of the benches beside the blond, who seems fatigued. His little hands are behind his head and his legs are stretched out, leaving part of his lower belly exposed. My body collapses at the sight, albeit peripheral, of some part of its body other than its face and hands. Most of all, I want to pierce his chest from the breach that has been given to me, but the boy seems too pure for my almost erotic thoughts and this forces me to completely forget the desire to possess his body as quickly as possible. What captivates me in his person is something else.  
  
What I love is his innocence. It is resplendent.  
  
The way he looks up at the sun, his eyes taking on a color quite close to the spring green, pushing the rebellious black strands of his well-designed face, so well-designed that my talent becomes a nothingness near the owner of such a work, just so that its vision is privileged and the wind can lick its cheeks naturally stained, is the painting used during the most beautiful afternoon that I had the honor to attend.  
  
Innocent. Brilliantly innocent.  
  
When Venus gets up and shakes his hands in front of his friend, I know they will be prepared to go and I hurry to pay for what Michael and I have not eaten so that I can go freely out of the restaurant and across the street, just to watch to run his arm through the blond and head north, where I know that a large part of those who have many assets live. Another point about Venus.  
  
My boy takes me through the citadel slowly. His steps are drawn and mine automatically become reluctant, causing people here, there to look at me suspiciously. If they no longer feel comfortable in my presence, I just wonder what they will think after seeing me drag through the corners.  
  
They cross the bridge that leads to Jamia's house. I'm already close to home, but my body shakes from head to toe with the thought of meeting my friend and making her angry for being basically chasing after the boy who does not know the name when he should be working.  
  
"I wonder what the hell you do here if your house is on the other side?" The harsh voice of the one who least wanted it to appear rings in my ear. My body instantly freezes, and I need to gather the courage to turn to the short woman who looks at me with crossed arms and angry expression. "I cannot believe you chased the boy."  
  
"Should not you be at home resting?" I ask, directing the conversation to something other than me. It does not work, because Nestor casts a wry smile and presses her fingers into my arm.  
  
"I must make the fair. And you need to leave Iero in peace before you become obsessed with it." And here comes Jamia acting as if my person possessed some disease.  
  
"I will not be obsessed."  
  
"That's what I'm praying for."  
  
"You do not pray."  
  
"Desperate situations call for desperate measures."


	7. Bride.

The day I saw Lindsey dressed as a bride, walking through the archway that my mother's garden trees formed over her head in the braided, interlaced skirt she'd ordered from the capital, bobbing her long hair in the afternoon breeze and smiling at the bouquet of flowers in her hands; I could swear that from then on I would only have eyes for that beautiful woman who stood in front of me in the company of her father.  
  
That spring afternoon, I found myself wishing to sleep beside her and walk arm in arm, but that was all I wanted. I did not want the touch, the kisses, not even the sex (although I managed to get her pregnant). She was like a friend, or even a confidante, of those who do not bother sitting under a parasol and listening to the problems of others for hours, sipping a cup of tea in silence. And for just over five years of marriage, that was all.  
  
Not that I regret saying the so famous and expected (not for me) "Yes" on that altar, far from it... But every time I stop to think, I think I might have looked for another way to deal with my total lack of interest in women. I was stuck with a woman when I did not like her gender, just to prove to my father that I was the man he demanded so much.  
Brave, Gerard Arthur Way. Great way to get away with your problems.  
  
For years it was like that, and there was an enormous probability that we would be the distant, unbearable couple we see from time to time, when the husband needs to visit a brothel to satisfy himself and the wife is locked in the house lamenting. Luckily we never got to that point, but that does not mean we were living extreme happiness either.  
The fact is that I loved Lindsey and made a point of taking care of her with my life, even if I had no desire for her feminine attributes. We were living on a facade marriage, and we were fine with it - or almost. She was in love with me and made that clear.  
  
As always, I did nothing to change. And neither could. What would you think of a man who rebukes his wife for the passion she feels in an age when love is almost nonexistent? I resolved that I would act as the devout husband who was not, by donating myself completely and letting her surrender as well. I never loved her as my wife, though.  
  
We would be perfect for each other if I were not basically using it to prove my masculinity - not for myself, of course.  
  
My father, like the retrograde man he was, required his two sons to marry stereotyped women and work to make a fortune in the field of Math, almost a reflection of himself. A pity that years later one of them became a widower and the other placed the cart in front of the horses.  
  
And now I am here, knowing that the warmth emanating from my bed comes from the warmth of my own body and the sheets are tidy because of the lack of movement at night, unlike most other days of the year, with a unknown craving to go after Bert and solve our conflict. One day without the boy and I already feel crazy.  
  
Magnificent.  
  
I hear Guadalupe's soft knock on the door in an attempt to get my attention, and her voice sounds through the wood stating the time and inviting me to the coffee already laid. I know I overslept, and my head hurts more than usual.  
  
The day would be beautiful if my mental state were not one of the worst. Lindsey's memories and her smile as she smoothed her belly, the longing for Bert's body curled up in mine and the desire to see the face of my boy are ghosts that keep me from tasting the candy that my housekeeper prepared.  
  
Alicia does not say a word as I sit down beside her, face down as the night before, when Michael informed her that they would postpone the marriage until after she had given birth and left the child with her cousin in the capital. I sigh, serving her.  
  
"You look worse than you did yesterday, girl." Perhaps my need to talk to her is because of the lack of the young boy, with whom I could talk about any subject without feeling trapped, letting it flow until my throat dried. Simmons stands still, just looking up to find me frowning. "Is it because of the postponement?"  
  
"I do not think my parents will accept that." She grunts. With a gesture, I ask her to continue. "From the moment they learned that Michael wanted me as his wife, they ran back and forth trying to speed up the whole process; Maybe for wanting me out of their wings as fast as possible. And now they will have to wait another six months to make their own dreams come true." Right. I'm not understanding anything. "The truth is, I never wanted a monumental wedding in which the whole town would appear, but my opinion is not important to any of them, and that includes your brother." She pant, leaning back in her chair violently, wincing at the pain in her back. I cup the coffee to my lips to take my hands before they caress it. And that's when I realize that I need help, just like the girl.  
  
"Talk to Michael and make him agree to a minor arrangement." I shake my shoulders, listening to the porcelain tinnitus. Alicia widens her eyes at me, startled by my idea. "Even though he is a brat most of the time, I would give his life for you."  
  
"He does not act like one..." She whispers.  
  
"He made me open my doors for you when my only wish was to send him to hell on a donkey." I roll my eyes and lean against the arm of my chair. The girl seems to widen her eyes already big enough. "That's something. Now eat, because if this creature within you dies, it will be my fault that I did not give you food as it should." She nods and takes the basket of bread in shaking hands.  
  
I have no interest in leaving the house and going to the studio. Like yesterday, my friend will not be there, too busy with her sadness and longing to bother going out for something other than emergency. So the place will be empty and silent and I do not have the mental stability to deal with one more lack on this day, which ironically holds up a vibrant and, to some extent, inviting sun.  
  
I decide to stay at home.  
  
And that's when I inform Guadalupe and send the table out of the cafe that I remember the possibility of seeing my boy. If I stay here, walking from side to side or sitting in the garden, I will have no chance to meet his honey eyes or even find out your name. It takes me a moment, and I realize that pondering what to do when I can very well put my junk together and look where he is to pretend coincidence will not get me anywhere.  
  
"Guadeloupe." I call her. She looks at me closely. "Take the briefcase on the porch for me." I watch her rapid steps to the back of the house, where the large area that opens onto a not-too-deep lake lost in the midst of so many trees holds the notebook I've been carrying for two years, since I decided that the painting would no longer be a distraction. She returns quickly. "I do not know if I'll be here for lunch. Pray I will not."  
  
My housekeeper nods her head and walks me to the door, closing it hesitantly as I reach the small staircase leading me out of the property. I try in vain to admire the stunningly hot day as I walk down the dirt road that leads me to the city, raising my head to feel the sun touch my face freely and the wind flutter my clothes and hair as my boy did yesterday; but it is as if every action becomes beautiful made by its person and horrendous by any other.  
  
I feel the mild weather before I even reach the village. Kids run after a ball in the street behind my parents' house, shouting at each other about the score of this game. Those who work at the fair or establishments along Main Street smile while bringing things out and assembling the attractions for their customers. Although it seems a good idea to sit at one of the tables in the Sugg's restaurant, I keep walking toward the center.  
  
In another of my not-so-well-thought-out decisions, I sit down in one of the vacant benches of the giant garden that surrounds the oldest tree in the county. There are not many people around here, and those who walk around with their dogs and small children do not speak louder than whispers, which gives me a great opportunity to enjoy the noise of the canopies that sway over my head.  
  
I feel at peace to draw. The ink runs through my fingers like magic, spreading through the sheet through the continuous movements I make with the colored pencils. There is no rush in my features, I do them carefully, no matter how clearly I remember the pile of pictures to finish that awaits me in the studio and how much I need to run with everyone.  
  
The day is beautiful and my mood is terrible. There is no better combination.  
  
"So you're going to tell me this is the famous Gerard Way?" The loud, shouted voice that rings at my side freezes to my soul, completely blocking my movements to the point where the red pencil almost collapses on the floor. I hear the noise of someone heavy sitting next to me with force, and the impression I have is that the bench will turn a seesaw. Do not look, Gerard, _do not look_. "I have not seen you for so long, I'm struck by the fact that you haven't changed much. You still look like the seven-year-old who walked into my boisterous room to learn how to use the brushes you had earned for you birthday."  
  
It's nothing personal. Frank is not a bad man - I must admit - and for a long time was one of the reasons why I did not leave aside the desire to draw and live it, but I can not look him in the eye when I know that these are almost the same as my boy without feeling horrible for having, in any way, exceeded some limits and to have fallen in love with his son.  
  
I take a moment to absorb this situation to face it, but without really seeing it for precaution, facing a point on his wrinkled forehead, and do my best to open a smile. Which clearly does not work.  
  
"Frank Iero. It strikes me that you are still alive." My former teacher acquiesces with his head, his expression becoming almost young under the circular glasses. Deep breath. "What brings you to Toamna?"  
  
"Linda was going completely mad with the epidemic that hit the capital and begged us to come back here, 'because it's so far from everything that if the disease reaches this place, the world will be lost.' At this point, I must agree." He chuckles as if it's really funny.  
  
"Well, some children were infected and quarantined a few weeks ago..." I comment. Frank watches me closely. "But nothing really overwhelming. We avoid going to other cities..." Though I have done it with Jamia and put myself at the mercy of the bacteria that cover the ground. And speaking of it... "So that we do not end up bringing the illness."  
  
"Sounds like a good plan until some fool brings the plague and everyone dies." Oh, old Frank Iero and his older jokes are still back. I wonder if my boy's personality is similar to his father's. If God exists, I know the answer is no. "But let's put the disease on while we're still healthy..." He must have sensed my morbid silence, twisting his body to rest his arm on the back of the bench and look at me correctly. I remain in the same position, however much I look at it. "Have you ever had children, Way? It's pretty close to thirty..."  
  
"I do not want to have children." I answer with caution. I need to recover quickly so that I do not expose the pain I feel when I touch the subject, shaking my head and pushing the pencils into the case in my lap, drawing his attention to such a place. "On the other hand, I see you exaggerated the dose..."  
  
"Five girls, a boy, and I still have to deal with Linda's nephew." He smiles. It's my opportunity! I can not only, and finally, discover the true name of Venus, like several other facts about his still so short life. I do not permit myself to repeat the gesture of man; but internally, I feel as if a huge party is taking place. "A little tiresome for her to take care of all of them, and it's complicated for me to bank them, but I know how proud I am to know that they are my children with the woman I've always wanted."  
  
"No wonder you've crossed a line." I comment with the raised finger almost didactically. My heart is beating on my tongue. "But... And their names. What are their names?" I look flustered as I close the briefcase quickly and give Frank full attention, bending my eyes a little at his next words. My former teacher narrows his suspicions, but he raises his hands to count on his fingers.  
  
"The eldest is Eliza, who has just turned twenty." This does not interest me, my dear. "Then there's Delia, only nineteen." I still do not care. "The twins, Courtney and Blair, and little Anne." I remain disinterested in girls. "They are marvelous, but I look forward to the day when the older women will marry and I will be able to reduce their workload." Tic tac, time is ticking. "Robert is very welcome in our house and almost like a seventh son." Continue. I am praying inwardly for some force to take away my anxiety and prevent me from suffocating at its delay. "And, well..." It's time. "We have young Frank Jr, about to turn eighteen, which is probably our greatest pride."  
  
Frank. Anthony. Thomas. Iero. Jr.  
  
His name to me is _Anthony_.  
  
I'm so happy to finally make such a discovery that I do not realize that I ignore the man's speech for almost five minutes. I know his name! Venus is called Anthony, and this is wonderful, since from now on I have a denomination for his face. Nothing else matters.  
  
Oh Gosh! What a joy!  
  
"Do you think the bastard learned to play the piano without any class? Don't even want to imagine Linda's reaction!" Ah, then, besides being extremely handsome, is he as talented as no one else? One more discovery about his person. At the same time that I do not like to know that he is Frank's son, I thank any existing deity, since everything seems easier to know. Next step: to approach the boy. "And by the way, he's a great admirer of you work." Oops. Wait a moment. "I'd call him here, but if I mess up with the girls, they're sure to be angry and I'm not in the best health for that."  
  
"You do not have to" I murmur. "We'll still have plenty of chances to meet."  
  
"Ah yes yes!" Frank laughs. "When he heard that we were moving to Toamna, he told me about your work. Someday I'll call you to dine in our present house so that you can sit down and talk about what you people who live purely in art do and enjoy. Until then, you'll have to wait."  
  
 _For this boy, I would wait forever._  
  
"But, well, my dear Gerard, I'm leaving before lunchtime." Frank stands with a simple smile. I accompany him by education and accept the hand that is stretched out to me, squeezing it with more force than it should. My ex-teacher shakes his head, and deflects his arm so that his fingers can mess up my hair, like twenty-two years ago. "I hope to see you soon."  
  
"Same, Iero. Same."  
  
He turns his back and walks toward his chicks, who lift the moment they see him approaching. My boy is the last, too slow for his flustered sisters, blushing pink cheeks already.  
  
I keep staring at him even as I should have gone to the opposite side, analyzing every reaction of his as he was hugged by the shoulders of his fat friend and pulled away from the tree where he had once been sitting under. His chocolate-colored hair swayed in the wind, making room for the delicate face. I put my hand on my chest, internally howling and dancing to the music that returns to my world when I see him.  
  
One thing I know, I do not have any attribute that will attract the attention of any mentally stable human being - different from him, who possesses so many that I can barely list - but I sense that the imaginary thread that unites us makes him look directly at me when he turns to pick up the jacket he drops. And Anthony smiles, showing the career of perfect teeth and revealing the slight depressions in the protruding cheeks, as if he knew that he could cause me a cardiorespiratory arrest only with this act.  
  
And his eyes... His eyes are so light... So pure...  
  
So determined to marvel that I make no effort to give him a smile of return, which seems only to stir him to continue looking at me with those beautiful eyes until his friend hits him on the shoulder and pulls him back to his route.  
  
That does not stop him from looking over his shoulders.  
  
And it does not stop me from wanting it with double the will.


	8. Ghost.

Even though it's past lunchtime, I'm not hungry. The afternoon is less hot than the morning in the dignified autumnal climate I so fondly enjoy, and I know that a storm prepares to strike at night as I look behind the mountains.  
  
Empty streets now graced my view. Children and adolescents are in school and those who are not, hiding in their homes doing pranks. Adults work as slaves so they can go early and escape the dreadful future rain. And I... I'm standing in front of the huge Hudson house, head held up to the second floor and hands buried in the pockets of the overcoat that covers me.  
  
I can see that Judith is leaning again on the window sill, her curly hair pinned behind her ear, her eyes discreetly striding along the length of the street, searching in the background for the short woman who would ordinarily pass by just to give her the air of her grace. And when she realizes that she is not here, she sighs deeply disappointed.  
The young woman is slow to find me, but when she does, she jumps back and runs in, disappearing long enough to make me give up trying to talk. I wait... I wait... With crossed arms and narrow eyes, trying to imagine why my presence had made her flee so immediately, until finally returns with a small box in shaking hands.  
  
"Take it, Way!" Her cry is whispered before you drop the object on me. I hold it at one last moment, too fumbled to keep the case on my elbow intact. I need to revise my definition of balance. "I'll ask you to give Jamia and bring me the answer as soon as possible!" She opens her arms, gesturing with hysteria. I shake my head affirmatively at the grateful smile that opens then disappears behind the white curtains.  
  
Picking up the briefcase and hiding the apple-sized box in my wide clothes, I slip out of this place slowly and patiently, smiling slightly at the ladies who stare at me curiously, asking their shadows what my person is doing here when I should being two miles to the west, at the same time wondering how my mood could have changed so fast. Then I remember Venus and his name, F. Anthony, and I know that's the reason.  
  
The way to Jamia's house is long. I walk down the main street carefully, fearing to injure the little present Judith sent. The cold sun keeps me company during the tiring journey, almost talking about what it feels like to know that soon it will not be able to expose itself in this exacerbated way and take away the depression that will infest the houses when it happens. I smile at that, and realize that I am doing this more than I should.  
  
The property appears empty. I know she's confined in her bedroom, surrounded by pillows to scare away the loneliness that eats away her, unfinished designs to kill her boredom, and some broken dishes and decorative articles to quell the anger of not having the courage to walk through the door. I ring the bell on the wall, but I'm not answered. I play again, and I scream for her name.  
  
"Jamia Nestor, you have mail." I cress the entrance, using my shell-shaped hands to create a loudspeaker. My friend appears on the balcony instantly dressed in white, referring to the ghosts of the stories I heard from my late grandfather, almost bursting out of my laughter. I content myself with a shake of the head. "But get rid of that ghost face before you get me." I rise, raising my finger accusingly. She rolls her insolent eyes, and closes the doors.  
  
I wait for five minutes until she come down and slam the door with the face of a few friends so that I enter. She is more presentable, even though the purple bags around her eyes dim the brightness of such and have an expression of who has faced hunger and insomnia for months. Oh oh.  
  
"I hope you have a good reason to come here without warning in advance, Gerard Way." She cuts to the one that crosses the hall that leads to the living room. I must admit I've never seen this place so decadent, so full of scattered paints and so dark. I sigh, twisting my heels to look at her, finding nothing but the shadow of something that had once been Jamia.  
  
"Is this your way of saying, 'Welcome, my dear, but I'm not feeling well?'" She laughs, bitter. "You know, sometimes you can hold me if it means feeling better... I can also be the friend of the story if you want to."  
  
"Right." Nestor looks frightened, even ironic, letting the scarf that covers her shoulders slip to the floor and revealing shoulders that are strikingly bent toward her elegance. I must say that the haunted, now, is me. "What happened to you?"  
  
"What happened to _you_?" I ask, abandoning the briefcase on the sofa to touch her arms with the maximum of delicacy that my masculine hands allow. She succumbs to my touch, grinding her legs and almost falling to one side. "You're destroyed."  
  
"Tell me something I don't know." My friend forces herself to smile, failing miserably. I do not know what's the matter with me; I am so emotionally unstable that I do not hesitate to step aside to get the box inside my overcoat, pushing it to Nestor with a shake.  
  
"Judith sent you a present."  
  
Jamia freezes the instant I close my mouth. Perhaps what my words utter seems too surreal to her depressing state of mind, and that causes the slow fall on the couch covered with papers written halfway. She runs her hand over her face, taking a deep breath. The package is still in my stretched hand.  
  
I imagine that if she wait a little longer, I will have to force her to accept the present and open it in front of me. Not that I'm an impatient, or even thick, fellow, but it does not please me to stand like a fool waiting for her willingness to hold it and get rid of the burden of messenger to my friend and lover.  
  
Nestor takes it in her trembling hands, breathing deeply, as if it were a weapon that would be used to behead someone and she was not ready to do so. I can feel free and snuggle in the armchair a few feet from where it is, this being the only place free of all those papers and paints. This time, I can wait as long as I can without being overwhelmed by her anxiety.  
  
"What do you think is here?" She asks weakly. She raises her eyes to me, fearful. I can tell that I saw myself a few days ago when I did not see my boy and almost went crazy about it, in her. Sigh.  
  
"Maybe a farewell..." Right. I must make a mental note to take a few minutes every day to learn how not to worsen an already bad situation. My face loses its color. -"No, no! I mean... If you do not open it, you'll never know."  
  
"But what if..." Red sign.  
  
"Jamia." My voice is hard. She is usually so optimistic; why at the moment that most needs to be, can not? "Open it."  
  
She spends the package in her hands, too nervous to find the opening on the left side, as if, in undoing the packaging, it was a signal for heavily armed gentlemen to invade the residence and set fire to everything. She holds her breath in her throat and uses her fingernails to tear the wrapping of material I can not remember, throwing it to the floor to erect a light wooden box decorated with hand-drawn drawings with a feather at eye level.  
  
She unlocks the bolt quickly, too flustered to contain herself. This pulls me out a simple but contained smile. From the box, she remove what looks like a silver necklace with a circular pendant and an overly folded paper. I watch the way her shoulders relax as she recognizes the jewel, and her expression becomes calm - and somewhat emotional - as she unfolds the paper hastily. I lean against the back of the armchair, already in mind that I will have to ask - for the thousandth time today - to read.

"She told me to keep the necklace until we se each other again." Jamia shoots. After a hysterical crisis of almost twenty minutes, sobbing so loudly that it could make the walls shake, pressing the thin paper between sweaty hands and wetting her pale cheeks with dense tears, my friend decided that she needed to feed and feed me. Of course, I did not do much more than look at her and ask if she had gotten mad. "I hope it will not be long. I cannot spend more time without seeing my beloved and..."  
  
"Could you please just speak slower and slower?" She frowns at me, in a most obvious order not to interrupt or ruin her moment.   
  
"I'm alive, I'm breathing, let me be good-humored for at least an hour."  
  
"Right. Continue."  
  
"She said that Klaus's mood has gotten better every night, even if he does not let her go and take all the keys. Also said that she can hardly wait for us to meet to plan our escape from this city."  
  
"Do not you think you should wait a little longer?" I insist on my thinking days ago. Nestor steps away from the wood stove and leans over the table so we can stand face to face. "The thing is still complicated for Judith's side and awakening, again, her husband's mistrust would only spoil her plans to 'flap her wings'. You, on the other hand, still have a lot of work to do before throwing it all up and leaving me here; so have the least patience to be able to do everything you want. Besides, I do not think it will take too long for the old man to die for the drink he consumes."  
  
"You love the word _patience_ , don't you?" She smiles softly, showing the career of somewhat stained teeth from the smoke. Usually we would be inside out; I would be my friend in need of advice and she would help me. The fulfillment of this fact pleases me immensely.  
  
"Maybe a little." I shrug. "Give time to time, Jamia There is still much of it."  
  
"What if there is not?"  
  
"We got it."  
  
The fact is that time has taken care of me in its own way for the last almost thirty months. Ever since I found my dear wife that way, when the greatest wound that my soul could not endure was opened in one stroke, pushing my heart from the edge of a cliff near my sanity and letting it fall into an endless spiral; it has cleaned up the dirt my wounded feet had made on the way to almost total indifference to my feelings for that incredible woman.  
  
And now they return with twice as much force and quickness by Anthony, who, even when I focus on something that does not open the way for me to remember his person, is haunting my thoughts like a wolf, ready to hit the boat, and make me travel beyond the limits allowed by my mental balance indefinitely, until a shock of reality brings me back.  
  
Oh, I must remember to start to spend my free time producing something that will be useful to me in the short or long term rather than nourishing thoughts and philoso- phy philosophies that serve both me and my friend, who probably must be getting tired of my complaints disguised as sensible guesses, before I end up losing myself in another fantasy thanks to the failed attempts to escape the situations that my own words judge.  
  
"By the way, did you give up wooing little Iero? Say yes, please." Jamia deviates me from my reverie coarsely before I sink. I can see that lunch is already served, and she sits on the other side of the wooden table with a somewhat worried expression, pouring herself a glass of wine. I shake my head.  
  
"I met him this morning near the park with his parents." Color fades from her face at my words. Obviously I know she does not support my decision to keep thinking about the boy and that my resistance is taking her seriously, but what can I do? My boy is too wonderful to be forgotten. "Frank recognized me right away and decided to leave his mouth bigger than his face ..."  
  
"Gerard..."  
  
"I found out your name is Frank Anthony!" I almost shout, slamming on the table. The dishes are shaking and Nestor jumps back because of the fright. I breathe deeply before continuing. "He is the third son of the Iero, and unfortunately he is only seventeen." She makes mention of herself, but interrupts her quickly. As if she did not know that he would use that as an argument to stop me thinking about the boy. "He said that Anthony admires my work, and that he will invite me to dinner at his house any day!" I can easily be equated with a child who gets some candy at the end of the day for good behavior. Jamia, on the other hand, seems bewildered by my sudden and unusual animation. "Do you have any idea how wonderful this is? Do you have an idea?"  
  
"Gerard... That will still give you trouble." She tries to warn.  
  
"I can not imagine a problem." Will I be so caught up in the figure of Anthony, in love with every single thing that is part of his being and lost in his magnitude, that I am unable to think of the bad side that is supposed to be in this situation, even with my whole life experience?  
  
No, of course not.  
  
"What if he does not care for boys, but for girls? You are not 'god' to define this." For a moment, even my soul freezes. What if ... What if Anthony feels absolutely nothing for me how I feel about him? What if he only sees me as a mirror for his art, while I want to spend my last days at his side? What if ... What if Anthony loves girls?  
  
I need some quiet time not to collapse.  
  
"You may be disappointed."  
  
"I should not worry about that right now." Ah yes. I must worry. "We were made for each other, Jamia."  
  
"You never spoke to the boy. Do not act like a spoiled little girl!" She scolds. My heart races instantly, even dancing to russian tap dancing on my tongue.  
  
"Everything is under control." I assure you, even if I'm not. "I know what I'm doing."  
  
"No, you don't."  
  
"Are you going to insist on this discussion?"  
  
"I'm just telling you to be careful." She sighs, giving up with a sign of peace. I force myself to smile.  
  
"Sometimes, Jamia, the fear is greater than the danger itself."


	9. Woman.

I can only see that I am finished, both with my brain exhausted from forcing memories and my body aching from the bad way I sleep, when I have no more ability to press the brush against the canvas without trembling like a green stick and risk the work I've been doing for so long.  
  
The last week would have been the closest to hell because of my continued effort if I did not know that, at the end of it all, I would be extremely pleased with the closure of that project. For seven days and eight nights I had been locked inside the studio that did not have the presence of Jamia and barely received sunlight through the curtains I made a point of holding closed, to try to complete the damn painting that seemed to accompany me with strange eyes why I came here to check its condition.  
  
I had left Nestor in her own company when I realized that we had already surpassed the daily quota of uncomfortable conversations and looks full of censure and fury, no matter how much I stood with one foot behind to warn her that I was leaving because of her unhealthy state of mind. My friend sighed, shook her head, and stood propped up for a while until she finally mustered up the courage to lean over me and place a hesitant kiss on my face during a hug too tight. Obviously, I did not expect that.  
  
"Please, Gerard, don't do anything crazy." She whispered, too preoccupied to restrain the exaggerated closure of his arms around my hips. I growled in response. "Don't go mad over this kid."  
  
"It's a passion, Jamia." Doubtless I would try to convince her that the new stage of my art and my life and my sanity did not depend on little Anthony's existence so that she would not only forget to worry about it but leave me alone to take care of my own life. Gods, I'm already twenty-nine. I do not need a babysitter anymore. "Not a love like Lindsey."  
  
"I just want you to be alright, dear." She tried to smile, but she managed to twist her face into a deformed monster face. "You're still my best friend."  
  
"I'll be fine, Jamia, do not worry."  
  
So I left there and faced an unpleasant walk under the scorching sun of the three, that climactic change so rapid, common and annoying to Toamna, on the way to the studio I had left forgotten for so many hours, too preoccupied with the state of unfinished paintings and even from my own environment, before deciding to go home and stuck in the gray world that my room has become in recent times.  
  
Not that I do not feel extremely comfortable in my bed, protected from the gratuitous hatred outside the fortified walls of the house and embraced by the fantasies I have nurtured for eleven years since I decided my fate in art, but it is as if the fact that my little Anthony wasn't there with me under the covers, talking, smiling as only he does, was enough to erase all the colors I made to cover the room to keep me as close to my more than dull dreams .  
  
So when I arrived here, wiping the sweat from my forehead and hair and thanking the heavens for finally being able to take off the heavy overcoat I wore, I was finally able to understand why I had no desire to go home at that moment: the picture of my boy was unfinished and begged for attention. And, of course, I would give it.  
  
Soon I was barefoot and with sleeves rolled up on, my knees on the floor, surrounded by the most varied palettes I could find in the mess that was the first studio room and fastening the thinner brush I found between the lips, using my fingers more than such, ready to finish it as fast as possible. I didn't know when it would be Anthony's birthday: it could be the next day or six months later; so all I had to do was finish it before that date so I could send it as a gift.  
  
Which caused my total disinterest in returning home while the painting was incomplete. I had made it a point to keep in mind all the traces I had of my boy, in a continual effort not to let anything pass as I molded his face with all the care I had in that desperation. Sometimes I had to escape to other rooms to rest my hands, to walk from the studio to the fangs to eat anywhere near, and to sleep on a comfortable sofa in the reception room.  
  
Nothing good for my health, I know, but it was as if every pause was tied to my work and I could not delay it.  
  
When the weekend was over and all the slowness of those two days dissipated from the city, waking it up earlier and creating that typical monday's noise, I was able to breathe in relief and move away from the screen without the guilt corroding me. I had been so glazed in my office, innocent yet over-hyped, that I did not notice how much my legs needed that remoteness and how many calluses covered my hands.  
  
Sometimes you just have to suffer for the art, Jamia had said years before leaving her parents' house and denying her last name. As usual, she was right.  
  
It was not long before I left the studio that morning, completely filthy with a variety of bathing supplies during the week and praying to all the entities I could remember not to find anyone of considerable importance during the trip, to practically run to my house.  
  
Realizing that I had forgotten my briefcase, I repeatedly knocked on the door, being received in a few seconds by the girl Alicia, who shouted at my condition. Maybe I was really aesthetically destroyed - not that I wasn't mentally either - or maybe Simmons thought it was a haunt because of the time I spent without telling. And that makes me wonder if she had not looked for me.  
  
I watched Guadalupe running from one side to the other to prepare something as fast as possible, begging at the four winds for excuses, begging Alicia to set the table, and thrashing about to ask my whereabouts the past few days. I just waved and went upstairs.  
  
I needed to get ready soon and return to the studio. It was the first day Jamia had gone - she had insisted upon informing us shortly before our farewell - and the anarchy was such that it would cause her a fit of nerves. I was not at all excited about such a thing - cleaning was never my forte - but I would not be able to send Guadeloupe there, much less Alicia, so it was all my business.  
  
Magnificent.  
  
Arriving at my destination, shortly after the longest bath of my entire life, submerged in the bathroom long enough to free my housekeeper to prepare whatever she wanted and almost fall asleep, and the most hearty breakfast I could endure, among breads and different drinks until it was jammed; I could find all the windows and curtains open and the smell of pineapple and mint hovering in the air like the scent of my friend. Her coat was on the jamb, delicately positioned, and from that angle the main hall looked clean-though I knew she never touched my stuff.  
  
I hurried there, tossing the overcoat next to hers, ready to find her setting fire to the sales and a discourse on long-term housekeeping. In the end, she was only leaning over the painting itself. The trouble was that I did not see it in time to stop.  
  
"Hey, be careful!" She screamed as I heard my footsteps so close and heavy.  
  
I only had a chance to see my feet wrap themselves in the dark inks on the left side of the painting and the palette of assorted greens fly up to the painting, tumbling upside down and knocking down as much as it could until Jamia moved to yank it away, while I... Well, I was astonished, cold, pissed off. I had so many, but so many paints I could hardly count, but of course the most liquid would be the one chosen to completely destroy what I almost - literally - killed myself to do.  
  
And now I've been staring at the painting for half an hour.  
  
"I messed up." My voice is finally spread, low, hesitant, too weak. Jamia hurries to stand beside me, her trembling fingers squeezing my tense shoulders in a failed attempt to prevent it from spreading. And I almost do, I must remember, clenching my teeth to the point of ache, clenching both palms so that I feel my nails hurt and breathing loudly. "I messed up..."  
  
"We can fix it..." Nestor abruptly steps away and goes to the painting, lifting it with difficulty until she places it on the window sill. The light that passes through it almost blinds me.  
  
"No, we can not!" Negativity always.  
  
"Yes, yes, we can." Insists. I fold my arms against my stuffed chest, waiting for her to show me that we can really fix that misfortune. "Give me the brush you used." She stretches her hand, without taking his eyes off the painting. I must make an effort to lower myself to the floor and hand it over the little brush to rub it in the paint spilled under my boy's right eye, pouring close to his lips like a wound, and spreading out the other. "Just... Turn it into something psychedelic."  
  
Jamia turns to me with a frown and lips framing a small smile. She gives me the brush with delicacy when I finally have the courage - and awareness - to approach her and ponder the idea I had before following what she had said. My fingers slip the fine tip across the once pink cheeks of the dirty face in circular motions until they form a moss-green spot almost equal to the other. Nestor makes a sound of satisfaction, although my expression remains angry and completely unbelieving.  
  
I take the brush to the top of the painting, where the white perseveres around the figure. I had chosen not to set the background to enhance it, but the idea struck me the second I saw I could do better. They are like branches that leave the edges and follow up to your face and curl gently on your neck just to keep it there, standing, without further damage.  
  
Then I notice the genius who works with me.  
  
"We did it..." I whisper, too impressed to say anything else. My dear stands beside me, wrapping my long arm around my shoulders in a clumsy hug. It's a lot of physical contact for so little time. Of course it's not as good as it would be if the accident had not happened - and I'm talking about the perfection of Anthony's face, not my hands - but it's as if ...  
  
"If he ever sees, he won't know it's him!" Nestor pats me on the chest, thrusting me forward as if she wants to knock me down, and goes off, humming one of her favorite poems while I wonder if that's actually better.  
  
May be. After all, Jamia Nestor is almost always right.


	10. Family.

I clearly remember the day when Michael, at his ten years of age and fear that surpassed the standards imposed on children of that time, fled the stairs and locked himself in the room the moment the door was opened hard. I could only see my brother twelve hours later, and I was not happy about the reason.  
  
Donna could not do much more than receive a briefcase of documents against her chest, which she made a point of holding and slipping silently away after the almost murderous look she received from the husband who was coming home fuming through the pores. I would not have your support, or your understanding look when the storm came - it weakened me in the same second.  
  
The almost complete picture in my hands was thrown against the wall and broke into a thousand pieces, completely destroying the alternate universe it had taken almost a month to create. My utopia, my escape.  
  
Donald looked at me as if I were the worst regret of his life - and at fifteen, and with a rather heavy baggage of that man's outbursts, I can say that it was really what was going through his head. I remember how I swallowed reluctantly, the saliva sacrificing itself to descend, that knot that formed in my throat and took a long, long time to disappear.  
  
The story is that he had come from the parenting meeting he had had at the School of Knowledge that morning. If, during the previous week's release of the event announcements, was I terrified? No doubt. The beginning of so-called "Middle Schooling" had been my worst time in school - and I must report that it was not about "not having any desire to study", it was about "I am struggling but not improving"; But, as always, my dearest father was not able to understand.  
  
That was when the rain of swearing came. _Gerard, the irresponsible. Gerard, the one who wants nothing of life. Gerard, the street painter. Gerard, the one unable to learn a mathematical formula. Gerard, the stupid. Gerard, the one who did not value himself. Gerard, the "little woman." Gerard, the one who could not act like a real man._  
It was no news to Donald to attack me with such things - the central argument was that my person was not capable of being like everyone else (and I thank the heavens for it) - but it was rare that he would go to the second phase: words of low slang.  
  
I was whipped with everything imaginable, and it was easy to think of little Mikey and Donna's tears in the other rooms, but Donald would not stop. It did not matter if I was lying on the floor, hugging my knees and trying to contain the sobs that escaped with that typical force that could stop my heart at any moment: it would continue until I was marked for life - and I am.  
  
And it was not enough for my psychological to be absurdly affected by his unpleasant words, I still had to put up with my hair to the center of the room where I was thrown against the small glass table that decorated the room, thanking the skies for the thick pants and a coat I wore for protecting me from imminent death - though they did not prevent some shards from entering my skin and creating scars; and have my head up by the neck to meet the eyes of something that was quite close to the demon I believed at the time. My hands flattened the ground for support as I felt the hairs growing on the back of my neck almost ripped out as I was pushed back into the shards; and the screams... the screams I'll never forget.

It was not much different from that bandit who comes from a poor family, with no condition whatsoever to get a better life or to grow up in a society as hypocritical as I live, and is beaten to death by people who say "good" and who are "trying to make the world a better place" - but who are actually equaling the villain by taking his life away - by stealing some fruit from the fair to feed family or some jewelry to sell and have some change to pay taxes before of being thrown out of the shack where he lives. The dissimilarities were that my person took from his own father and not from probable strangers, possessed a social condition considered good and left alive from the crossfire.  
  
"People like you deserve nothing of what they have." Oh, sorry, Dad, if I'm not the perfect son you wanted me to be and you've tried to mold me for fifteen years to be able to show people how good a patriarch you are. Really, I'm sorry. You can buy clay and make a child with it.  
  
And I stood there, thrown, destroyed. I had never understood why parents like Donald had the need to beat up their children as a sign of education. I even thought he had discovered my preference for boys and was wanting him to become "real man" as if a man's masculinity were measured by his sexual orientation. And on this, I must say that I know that I am much more a man than my father - I must remember that he "loves women." Nice thought for those who live in a society like mine.  
  
Hours later, I could see my brother scrambling down the stairs, peering over his shoulder to see if Donald was coming back, and running to get up from there with an effort, whispering painfully that we needed to run before he came back. My body was lifted off the floor slowly and dragged into his room in slow strides. Mikey was so small that I and still had the strength to take me when my only desire was to stay there until I bleed.  
  
That night, my father did not find me. Michael made me sleep in his bedroom - especially because he was frightened by the man's over-violent reaction - and it took him two days to deal with everything that had happened in that time and to speak without stuttering, while I had only a few hours before I had to face the beast again.  
  
Fourteen years later, the same man who left different scars on my body and soul welcomes me with a wide smile and exaggerated sympathy, squeezing my hand between his fondly and welcoming them repeatedly so that I can follow to Michael. Donna is in the corner, demure, waiting patiently for her husband to finish the welcome so she can receive her own children. And undoubtedly, this is one of the reasons that I hate the rule of submission matters to women.  
  
Impressive how people have short memories.  
  
I absolutely know why he treats me so well: money. My estate is almost quadruple that of my father; and this is comical. I would starve if I were an artist, right?

It is a wedding anniversary, or something close to that, of my parents and they decided, as if by magic, that they should celebrate in the company of their two children, who fill them with pride and all those speeches that hypocritical parents do when they realize that the brats they despised in childhood and adolescence grew more than they did themselves.  
  
Sorry, I'm not that stupid.  
  
We are served with fish and salads. I'm not hungry anymore. Jamia had made a point of feeding me on the grounds that they would prepare dishes that I did not like, and I resolved to remain quiet, just watching how the subject of Michael's postponed marriage unfolds easily, keeping them stuck in such for almost an entire hour.  
  
I can only swallow the wine.  
  
"Gerard, how's the studio going? You're a lucky young man of great country recognition." My father begins, in those fake night-time good humor and interest in my work, which invite me to roll my eyes and not answer. Instead, I shake my shoulders.  
  
"It's going well. We..."  
  
"See, Donna? If we had not given conditions to this boy he would never have gotten where he are now." Gods, give me patience. Lots of patience. "If we had not enrolled him in art school, bought all those palettes and urged him to continue doing what he loves..." Michael looks at me with wide eyes, food stuck in his throat, hands clutching the glass, silently begs to respond with caution.  
  
"But, Dad, I bought my own palettes at eighteen. You bought me colored pencils."  
  
"Do not interrupt me, Gerard Arthur." Donald shrieks, moving so swiftly from his proud, murderous gaze that I need an instant to digest the hatred he directs at me. Michael crouches in the chair in front of me. "I was saying..."  
  
 _Let him live in his fantasy, where you and your brother have only become successful because of him. Let him believe and choke on his own lies_. Jamia had said last year when I had told her how my father made a point of shouting to the world that his eldest son was Gerard Way to receive praise and social growth.  
  
"And how's beautiful Jamia?"  
  
"Growing more each day. Next week she will go to the capital to expose her last works." I smile, even though the discomfort runs through my veins and makes me want to run out of this place as fast and as far as possible. The mountains are a great idea.  
  
"You should marry her." Donna thinks for the first time, letting her voice spread. Mikey looks at her in a startled way, just like Donald. "Jamia can make you give up the mourning of Lindsey and go on living, my dear."  
  
"But, Mother..." I sigh. She raises her drawn eyebrows curiously. I'll continue. "I'm no longer in mourning for Lindsey. It's been two years..." Magnificent. Now everyone is looking at me with disappointment. "And if 'to follow the life' you mean to mount a house and to have children, I regret to inform: I will not run this risk anymore."  
  
"Children are a blessing, Gerard." My father comments, folding his arms against his stuffed chest. And, of course, I must not lie and say that I do not want to deform his face like a monster's, but, as no news, I have to restrain myself.  
  
"Only when they become rich men who can afford a great retirement, do not they, Daddy?"  
  
Gods. I'm dead.  
  
Replying rudely to my father never materialized on my lips, although I have spent countless times through my mind as I grew up. If I did it as a child, I'd be locked up in the "darkroom" - a tiny room with a window to the house kennel - all night long so I'd learn to respect the elders while watching my parents' psychotic dogs kill small animals coldly. As a teenager, I would be cursed like the scum of the human race or beaten until my eyes disappeared in the purple around them.  
  
And today, what risk do I have? Donald is half my size and I am solely and exclusively supported by my person, so ...  
  
"Get out of my house."  
  
If his God exists, let him be praised.  
  
I can feel Donna's sorry look on me; The poor woman can not do anything and "her" anniversary has been spoiled by her dear son who no longer has head for the foolishness of her husband. Mikey looks like a child in my eyes: so, so small, curled up against that chair that I might even feel sorry if I did not know what he's doing behind our parents' back and out of the "perfect boy" image.  
  
Donald does not move as I leave with my head held high. Did he really think that I would leave with bent shoulders and staring at the floor as if I were the "non-man" that he said was my whole life? Or that I would apologize for my irony or something?  
  
Excuse me, Dad, but I'm not a little boy.  
  
No longer.


	11. Eighteen autumns.

The day is colder than a normal human would hold. The sun did not rise through the mountains at five o'clock as it should, and above my full head all that runs are clouds so charged that their color approaches the black. The fairs are set up with extra tents and umbrellas accompanying the children running towards the School. All that could protect me from a possible rain is the hat.  
  
The windows of the studio are already open, the wind comes in through them and Jamia walks peacefully as if it were not the coldest day of the year - except during the winter - humming something that sounds like a church song to me. My friend smiles at me as I find myself by the doorjamb, abandoning the coats that covered me along the way and following to the main hall, which leads to a picture for the upstairs.  
  
I wonder where that smile came from. In the last few days - often since her relationship was interrupted - it is as rare to see her smile as to be totally satisfied by something she does. I saw her tearing screens that were incomplete and tossing so many papers into the bin I can hardly tell. And that good humor only brings me back to a little creature: Judith. He must have seen her-or even spoken to be in such good mood suddenly.  
  
Nestor goes back to the lower floor when I'm already in the sleeves, preparing the materials to finish the project I've interrupted since I first saw Anthony, cuddling in an armchair in the corner of the room, her chest-raised legs covered with her dress and her arms encircling them, turning her into a small ball.  
  
"What made you so happy today?" I asked after almost half an hour in a comfortable silence, but that had left me with a flea behind my ear. My friend opens her eyes slowly and frowns well-made silently asking for my to repeat. "You're too happy for someone to spend a whole week crying locked in the house. What happened?"  
  
"I saw her yesterday, Gerard!" She almost screams. The brush slips out of my hand with fright. "I was coming back through the park and there was my beloved! Unfortunately I was in the company of her husband, but I managed to get close enough to greet them and introduce myself as a known Judith from school days..."  
  
"And the longevist believed it?"  
  
"But of course!" Should I ask her to calm down her tone of voice? Soon, those who pass in front of the studio will hear what they say. "He asked me what it was like in my early childhood and let her greet me with a brief hug, but that was enough to make me happy for the rest of my week!" She opens her arms, then leaps from the chair and walks over to me, standing next to me with her hands clasped to her chest. "And the way she smiled, Gerard! Oh, her smile is so beautiful!"  
  
She's excited.  
  
Right. I can deal with this.  
  
"I cannot wait for the goddamn death..."  
  
"Jamia, leave the man." I groan. My friend turns her eyes insolently. "I have already told you that it will not last long, but if you prefer, you will find a way to bring her to the capital for a few days. Doubtless he will be dead in half the time."  
  
"It's not a bad idea..." She takes his thumb and forefinger to her chin and massages it, writhing her face in a thoughtful grimace. A lamp lights up above her head.  
  
"Gods, woman! You need to see this girl again every day before you go crazy."  
  
"I fully agree."  
  
We are interrupted by knocks on the front door. Nestor arranges the dress against her body and follows the corridor to the entrance, to which I pay attention to the smiling girl that I must finish in a month, before the wedding anniversary of a lord and his absurdly young wife. I must point out that I still wonder why so old men need to marry newly-born women - perhaps because I married a woman three years older or just because I did not understand the primordiality of a difference in age.  
  
I can hear the footsteps toward the second room on the right, where a table full of papers is in the company of some sofas and chairs for those who come to buy our art out of exhibition or order their own, and Jamia's voice is the only that resonates throughout the environment. It seems to me that a couple came to look at some paintings.  
  
Soon, my friend is back, this time alone holding a totally haunted expression, her color is non-existent and her eyes are bulging. It looks like she saw a ghost and slips closer, putting both hands on my shoulders and forcing me to lift my head to face it properly. My body freezes.  
  
"What's the matter, Jamia?"  
  
"You need to see that."  
  
I spend some time washing my hands in the sink and arranging the sleeves so I can follow her back into the living room. As I approach the door, I can smell a strong strawberry and cocoa that exudes from the room. Nestor slows down the pace as we get there, breathing heavily and trying to balance himself correctly in the heels she uses.  
  
On the large couch to the right of the room, I can see Frank Iero sitting in the company of his wife, Linda Pricolo. They seem curious to me with the scribbles that my face had made a point of hanging on to charm, looking around with attentive eyes, but too distracted with such that they did not perceive my presence.  
In the armchair beside you is little Frank Anthony.  
  
To this closeness, he seems bigger than the other times in my view - and more charming. His eyes are almost gray in the strong light of the room, staring at me as if it were the most interesting being on the face of the Earth. The little hands are lodged in the lap, shoulders bent and a discreet smile on his perfectly shaped face.  
  
Ice to the soul for being so close and not being able to touch it as much desire.  
  
Nestor clears her throat.  
  
"Here he is, Mr. and Mrs. Iero." My friend opens the best smile she can get under such conditions, attracting the attention of the three present. She leans over me with fear. "If you need me, I'll be upstairs. And, please, control yourself. He is still the son of his former teacher." She whispers so low that I have to strain myself to listen, but I shake my head and let her slip out and up the stairs in rapid strides. My first intention is to greet them.  
  
"I said I wanted to see you soon, Gerard Way." Frank chuckles with pleasure, then he raises, followed by the other two, to shake my hand with all his strength. I shake my head.  
  
"I never doubted your words, Professor." I cannot do much more than support his with my two before I walk away and go on to Linda, who smiles politely during the brief contact. It seems to me the same girl who appeared every day at the door of the art room to watch the man gather his things and call her into a conversation (well, at least I think they did) that would last an entire afternoon, just a little taller and with her huge, almond-shaped eyes.  
  
So that's when I stop for Anthony.  
  
The boy raises his colored eyes when he is so close to me, and I am an ogre beside his delicacy. He stretches his hand gently and wraps his fingers around my palm slowly, as if to enjoy our first touch. I do not know if he does, but I do. My boy's skin is warm, soft and his fingers extremely soft - pianist fingers. From where I feel its smell, and it is a sacrifice to let him go.  
  
I could die.  
  
"What can I do for you?" I murmur as I sit behind the table. Frank is the only one sitting on the chair in front of me. Linda and Anthony remain standing side by side, just watching the conversation unfold. I need to restrain myself from focusing entirely on the boy's gaze.  
  
"Frank is eighteen today." Gods. I'm a genius. "And, as I said, he is a great admirer of your work, Way; managed to convince me and Linda to buy one of your exclusive paintings." Someone please give me extra air. "We came here to pick his favorite."  
  
"Oh, how wonderful!" I'm astonished when I'm really trying to catch the air I'm missing. My boy wants something created by my hands as a gift.  
  
My heart leaps for joy.  
  
"We can start upstairs... That's where I keep my best paintings."  
  
"Great! Let's visit the upstairs!"  
  
Frank jumps out of the chair and gestures for his wife to approach. She does it immediately, entwining her arms so that they can climb the stairs together and in front, while I and boy Anthony remain in each other's presence for a while.  
  
Having him so close to me makes me cold, following the couple with strides, almost in the automatic. I want to hold his hand more carefully than I had done before and approach him so I can hold him and whisper how much he has enchanted me. Maybe he smiles his beautiful smile, hugging me and maybe whispering that he feels the same as we go to meet his parents who would welcome us with joyful eyes; Or maybe he would get away scared and escape the studio even before I had a chance to see what I had done.  
  
His scent is sweetly intoxicating. The perfect harmony between the strawberries picked up near the hills and the cocoa planted in the farms that surround Toamna makes me breathe deeply again and again as we cross the stairs, keeping all this essence for when it is far enough that my person can not feel it.  
  
Linda and Frank are already in the room that opens at the bottom of the stairs, watching the wing reserved for me, opposite to Jamia's, a few feet shorter, when we hit them. Anthony's colorful eyes are wide-eyed, excited about everything he sees in the room, trying to pick up every little detail as he runs his fingers through the screens against the windows.  
  
His mother is standing next to me with her hands clasped behind her back and following their commotion. Nestor is on the small balcony, clearly staying away from this movement, but keep an eye on me so I do not move on the boy and take him home - not that I do not want to do it. My body is against the wall, comfortably supported, and I watch the graceful way my boy walks about with his mouth open. It makes me momentarily happy.  
  
So that's when he finds himself hiding behind green and brown spots. I watch him run to the painting and hold it between his thin fingers, raising it at eye level. He looks amused, staring at the boy's smoky lizards, and slowly framing a satisfied smile on his slimy lips. My heart stops at the same instant.  
  
"I think I found it." He spreads, firm. And his voice... gods... his voice is wonderful, sweet, hoarse ...  
  
"Fantastic!" Of course Frank has to ruin it with his. Linda frowns at the painting, as if analyzing it, or at least attempting to understand whatever a wounded boy means. I just smile. "It's really impressive... I've never seen anything like it come from you..."  
  
"Sometimes we need to get out of the comfort zone, Professor." I just say it, like I don't want anything. The excited lights of Venus fall on me, and he opens his smile. "It's good that you enjoyed it, Frank."  
  
"It's incredible!" He screams. Jamia comes up with the noise, silently asking what is there. An idea runs me.  
  
"How much is it, Gerard? Come on, say it! Nothing is expensive that is not worth my son." For a moment, I wonder if my boy is like my brother: spoiled and with everything he wants at his feet. At the same time that the purity in his eyes means no, the way his parents apparently treat him say yes.  
  
"Umm... Jamia, could you show them the prices in the office? They are all there." My friend gives me the worst look in the history of the world, but she relieves the angry expression when she feels everyone turns to her. She nodded and beckoned to follow.  
  
"Of course." Frank holds his wife by the shoulders and follows Nestor quickly, abandoning me with his little son. Venus remains holding the painting.  
  
"He looks so pretty," he whispers. My heart stops. "It's impressive!"  
  
"There are many other worlds better than me..." Modesty aside, I can say that I agree with him. My steps are slow to the nearest and I position myself to his side with caution so that we do not lie down. If I touch his skin again, I will not be able to control my instincts and try to possess him anyway - not that I don't want to start doing it, but subtlety is too good.  
  
"I don't believe!" He rebuffs, returning the painting to its support. He brings his hand up to his chin and massages it, casting a thoughtful beak into his mouth. I fold my hands behind my back. "This kid looks a bit like me."  
  
"Maybe you have an ordinary face, Frank." I will not let him find out that really is his person, so I try to sound as natural as possible. If he does, he can run away scared thinking that I'm a molester of little boys who quotes him for the next victim. It clearly doesn't work thanks to his presence. "It's just a coincidence."  
  
"I don't have an ordinary face, Gerard." And my name on his lips, in his voice... Gods, I'm going to go crazy. He's facing me, just inches away. I can feel his calm breathing bounce against my chin and his scent attracting me to the bottom of a sea of seduction and desires that I must contain when I am not alone. My heart is racing. "Well, at least not in those bands. And I know enough about you to make sure you did not go far beyond the hills behind a model." He's too close.  
  
"You're having precipitous thoughts."  
  
"I saw how you looked at me lately, Way." His expression darkens quickly, his jaw caught, his eyes fixed mine. I'm ruined. "It's not because I'm a teenager I'm an idiot. I know exactly what you mean." But he doesn't look angry, defiant or anything like that, just... He just wants me to admit it, or he want to prove to himself that he's observant enough to recognize a lover.  
  
"In reality..."  
  
"Frank, my dear!"  
  
I may have detested Frank Iero for a long time when I was forced to draw until my hands were calloused, but at the moment I am suspicious to say that I owe my life to this man. The couple appears accompanied by a huge box carried by my friend, which releases it heavily against the ground as if exhausted. I run to get the painting and place it inside the tissue-filled box, trying to escape the strange look of Venus. I can finally breathe.  
  
Linda holds a proud smile on her face as her son approaches until she is by his side, running a hand through his black hair with affection. He looks at her with gratitude and snuggles into his body not much bigger than himself, which is really tiny compared to mine.  
  
The box is sealed and Frank catches it instantly, crossing the stairs to the door with the family. Nestor whispered to me that she demanded more than she should from man, but that it had been extremely necessary. At first I do not understand, but I do not answer and I follow the stairs down behind the Iero.  
  
At the door, Frank puts the box against the wall and turns to me, stretching his hand to greet him. I do it with all my might. When my fingers are tightly closed around something, they do not tremble. And I'm too shaky to let them notice. Linda does the same; then the door is opened and I can identify a car outside waiting for them. The driver (I think) runs to hold the box and take it inside, opening the door of the vehicle.  
  
Anthony lingers staring at me. Jamia has already disappeared from my side. His colored eyes haunted me without shame, his delicate hands tucked into the pockets of his coat and his lips pursed in a rigid line. I swallow hard.  
  
"I hope to see you as soon as possible, Gerard." Wait a second, Universe. The same boy who, a few minutes ago, accused me of watching him from a distance (and I do, though nobody needs to know), are you saying that you want to see me soon?  
  
"Same, Frank."  
  
Venus opens a simple smile, looks over his shoulders and throws his arms around my body briefly in a clumsy hug. I know he is not able to reach me properly and I rest my hand on his lumbar gently without really feeling it over the heavy coat. He turns away quickly, a wicked look covering the caramel-blue, then rushes to the vehicle, leaving me unresponsive.  
  
Am I going crazy... Or just just let my boy literally slip out of my fingers?  
  
Gods.  
  
"You'd better not hope to have a relationship with this boy, Gerard Arthur Way." Jamia scolds behind me. I turn my heels quickly, wondering how I got there without my noticing. "Bert McCracken is enough. We don't need anyone else with feelings for you to worry about."  
  
"I would never use Anthony for sexual purposes."  
  
"You said the same to me about the other boy and now he doesn't have the strength to look in your face. Don't be ridiculous, Gerard."  
  
"But, Jamia..."  
  
"I told you not to be ridiculous. Forget Frank Iero and go back to work."


	12. Fault.

This damn storm has been waiting for so long that I am trying to understand why there is no living soul on the street to take advantage of the thick rain that makes the ground tremble. It is common for Toamna residents to enjoy the rainy seasons by running out of their homes and letting the water soak them until they feel angry enough to rest. And we were all well with these moments of distraction from our heavy lives and shortage of enmity among some families.  
  
Today, however, the only being on the road hurt by the heavy rain is me. And I'm not okay with that.  
  
The lamps lit in the houses make a long path and with detours to the top of the mountains, where everything goes out and they become nothing more than blurs cutting through the thick clouds. I must go home, but it is as if, as I locked the door of the studio with shaking hands, my feet clung to the floor, preventing me from following.  
  
I'm in trouble.  
  
My body is propelled forward and I start to run to stone sidewalk, squeezing myself at the doors along the way so as not to be soaked, even if it means arriving later. If it's to be late for dinner, should make it reasonably dry. An unknown dog runs past me, barking for anything more interesting than my desperate figure.  
  
One more leap and I'm at the door of a building, struggling against the urge to dash off toward the hills. I have no idea how I'll get there. I'll have to get wet. Or I can take shelter in Jamia's house, almost half a mile closer to mine.  
  
 _Jamia._  
  
"What the hell are you doing there?" A voice shouts above me. I need to take off my hat so I can see who is talking correctly. A head falls out of a window on the third and last floor, preventing me from seeing its face. "You're going to die in this rain!"  
  
Robert.  
  
"I missed the time, my dear!" I cry back. His body seems to freeze instantly. It takes a certain quiet moment.  
  
"Ge-Gerard?"  
  
"Alive, but wet."  
  
The boy disappears from the window, the light is off and the glass is lowered. Oh, how wonderful! Now my only chance to avoid the downpour up the hills is wasted and I'm forced to go on like this.  
  
I take a deep breath, leaning against the door to give it another boost, or I'll certainly slip on the floor.  
  
Of course, if that same door were not opened and throw me into the building without the least care, hurting my already unhealthy back. A howl of pain escapes from the back of my throat and my mouth is immediately capped by the boy, who is suddenly kneeling beside me with a towel thrown over his left shoulder.  
  
"Do not you dare make a sound." He snarls his teeth, tossing the towel over my face. "Nobody needs to know you're here." Bert stands up and walks to the door, gazing back and forth before closing it gently, almost completely noiselessly. He nods toward the stairs and reaches for his hand. "Come on, Way. I don't have all night." He doesn't look like the same boy a few days ago who would greet me with a smile and do my best to speak softly and even childishly sweet, but a...  
  
I am a monster.  
  
"You are different, Robert." I whisper, already standing. His blue eyes fall on me with cynicism. I swallow hard.  
  
"Congratulations. It's your fault."  
  
I dare not say anything, just shake my shoulders and follow him up the stairs, taking care that my wet boots do not make as much noise as I think I'm doing in that silence. Robert sighs in relief as I sneak into his apartment, curling his body against the wall beside the open fire.  
  
"What were you doing out there in this storm? You could get pneumonia." He sounds worried; but unlike all the times it turned out this way, he stares at the ground and keeps his arms crossed, avoiding any direct contact with me. This gesture asks my person to not come close.  
  
"That's why it's all so... Dead?" Sometimes I'm struck by my lack of common sense and logical thinking. Was it not obvious that everyone would be too frightened by the outbreak of disease to undergo such a miserable storm? Not when I was busy with my fertile imagination about Venus.  
  
"Absolutely." He grunts. "Go bathe before the flu catches you. I can make some tea if you want." The boy walks past me hesitantly, as if my presence scares him. My hand is quick to grab his arm. "Gerard, let me go."  
  
"I don't want you to hate me, Bert. You know the importance you had in my life."  
  
"Yes, of course I do." He grabs his arm roughly. "It was my duty to satisfy all your wishes, to make you enjoy yourself like a horse until you had nothing else, and it was to serve as a pillow when you felt lonely." He's growling, his teeth are tightly clenched, and I can feel the shaking of where I am. Please, don't cry. "In the meantime I fell in love and you only saw me as the sexual object you would never be able to find in such a place, because it's a sin, because it's immoral. And now I'm here trying to figure out why I can't get rid of you."  
  
"Do not act like I don't care..."  
  
"You don't care!" He screams. My heart stops beating for a second, to which the boy covers his own mouth. Hiccup. "The only times you wanted to have me were when you missed your damn wife so badly that your own hand wasn't enough or when you were sinking into some work and needed distraction. I'm your toy, like a prostitute."  
  
"Your sanity was and still is of my interest, Robet!" I'm raising my voice. I cannot raise my voice. "But..."  
  
"You're in love with someone else."  
  
His words drop like an ice bucket over my head. In my eyes, he's as young as Venus, or even younger.... He stroks his black hair, his blue eyes barely keeping on my face, his skinny body shaking from side to side; he shows me the side I've never been able to meet.  
  
The side I corrupted.  
  
"What did you say?" Am I really so obvious to the point that Anthony and Robert realize that I am not in my total detachment from love? I do not remember ever showing an interest in the little fellow in the presence of the boy, but that doesn't mean I hadhe has hidden my thoughts about him so well.  
  
"You smiled, sighed, and even spoke the same way you did when you married Lindsey." He explains, shaking one hand. Another dragged sob echoes through the apartment; is trying to control himself. I reach for the sofa. "It's not so hard to notice that you were hooked." And then Bert smiles. Sadistic, aching, showing me once again how bad it can be to fall in love without being reciprocated. I sigh. "Who's the 'lucky guy'?" I feel his irony on the last word, and I do my best to ignore it.  
  
"How do you remember how you looked at Lindsey?"  
  
"I could have been only thirteen, but my memory is good and..." Stop. Take a deep breath. "Doesn't matter. Go bathe and wait for the rain to end here. I need to sleep."  
  
Bert goes to the end of the hall and closes the door with a mute thud. If we were in a normal situation, the one sitting on the sofa waiting to be called would be him, agonizing with a supposed delay and staring at whatever was on the other side of the glass window; to which I would be locked in the room preparing myself psychologically to receive someone who would have to satisfy without making noise.  
  
Not that it really happens now, but it's terrible to realize that being on the other side is never good.  
  
I leave the couch, let the towel slip from my shoulders and fall to the floor and I go towards the room at the end of the hall. I'd say I run the risk of finding him asleep, but I know Robert long enough to know that it will take some time before he goes out. The door is open; I push it with some strength to meet the boy in an armchair in the left corner of the dark room. He watches the rain outside with clear eyes covered with tears.  
  
"Bert?"  
  
"I didn't let you come in here. Have respect for it, at least."  
  
"I'm not disrespecting you, boy. Just..." The words flickered at the sight of him rising and dropping a cup on the desk next to the chair, then slowly approaching me like a wolf about to take the boat. I am so...  
  
"I really want you to leave. Wait for the rain to end in the living room or even in the guest bathroom, but, by the mercy of Christ, do not you dare to stay in mine..."  
  
I kiss him without thinking.  
  
I know the power I have over him.  
  
His legs falter and he wraps around my neck, closing his arms tightly around it. My hands run down his pointed hip, pulling up the thick sweater he wears, to which my teeth are keen to pull his lower lip. His body clashes with mine in a clumsy hug, typical of when he needs to restrain himself as early in the morning, but screams that no, doesn't want us to stop it.  
  
"Gerard..." He moans and takes a step back, just for his hands to slide down my shoulders until they rest on my chest. I contract my lips in a rigid line. "I can't let us do it."  
  
"Any specific reason?" I must remember that my curiosity is my greatest fault; and maybe that's why it seems a bit intrusive. The boy shrugs, suddenly hard at my question, as if I had just uncovered some secret of his. Has he been dealing with another man?  
  
No. Impossible.  
  
"I..." He shifts his attention to the floor, falling dead weight on the bed. I just stare at him. "During that time when we were apart, when you made up your mind and showed that it didn't make a difference in your life whether or not to have me around, I..." It's now. He will reveal to me that there is someone else. "I ended up sinking into a sea of hysteria and depression and... I needed something to make me forget it..."  
  
"Another man?" I cannot stand it anymore. I need to know, and so go ahead with Anthony without feeling guilty.  
  
"What?" He looks shocked. I sigh. "Why on earth would I try to forget a man with another man? It does not make any sense! It's stupid!" He shakes his head over and over again, letting his shoulders fall and his elbows resting on his bent knees. I fold my arms.  
  
"So what happened?" Tell me, please, tell me.  
  
"I asked for my cousin's marriage." The news comes with thunder. I jump back, so that it looks like a sissy when I see a small animal. Bert sighs and hides his head in his hands, visibly regretful. I just wonder which one. "You didn't love me before and you don't love me now. And I needed to find a way to get him out of my mind, out of my body... If I did it with another, his touch would still be impregnated in me. If I did it with a girl, it would be different and... Maybe not... Make me want it... So much." He lifts his head and meets my eyes.  
  
"Are you sorry you did it now?" I'm almost over his lean body, a little bent and trying not to let the slight disappointment that permeates my face. _He's using her, just like I used Lindsey._  
  
"No. I... She doesn't deserve this." He swallows hard. "We didn't meet each other yesterday, and we're not exchanging only interested looks or even smiles... We've known each other for nineteen years, grown up together; I saw her become a woman and she saw me become a man." Close the eyes. "I'm not promising her a bouquet of flowers. I'm promising her a wedding."  
  
I should have been more than relieved at the news. That means that, in the very near future, I will have no problem in relating to Venus with the guilt of having changed or even abandoned Bert by himself weighing on my chest. We will have no bond any more than a past filled with moments of lust and sated satiety with one another. We will only be known.  
  
He should be relieved, relaxed; But I'm not.  
  
I still want Robert with all my cells.  
  
My knees are bent at the sides of his body, so the movement makes him lie down on the mattress slowly, too frightened to ask any questions. I squeeze the flesh from his hip and gently press it against mine. A sharp groan fills the room and my hair is automatically drawn at the nape of the neck.  
  
I insist on kissing his collarbone and tossing his coat against the woody floor, the sound of wet clothes falling muffled by the long bite I put on his shoulder. Bert grunts in satisfaction, and he raises his body quickly, shocking us uncontrollably, making me gasp.  
  
"Gerard..."  
  
Now I can look him in the eye. They look dark from here.  
  
"Take tonight as an engagement present."  
  
"With pleasure."  
 _  
Pleasure._

  
**Ω**

The sun is about to be born when I let Robert slip away from our bond and the coziness of his own bed. The rain stopped ten minutes ago and, so far, I am seeking my courage and willingness to go to my house. The boy leaned against the window, dimly lit by a lamp on his right, and took a deep breath.  
  
"So... Is this goodbye?" He says, hand touching the curtain, while turning his head slightly towards me. My eyes stare at him briefly. I escape from the covers and walk over to him, wrapping his hips affectionately.  
  
"It's possible." Making that out loud makes me nauseous. I squeeze my fingers in their flesh. "You will marry in not too long, apparently; and I..." I have to conquer Anthony, even if it sounds like an impossible mission. "I think I'll settle down."  
  
"What's his name?" His voice is hesitant. He does not want to know, but he needs.  
  
"You should not be interested in ..."  
  
"I just want to know that your names will match and..."  
  
"You want to know who it is to evaluate him." I interrupt him. He snuggles to my chest and presses his hands against mine, needy.  
  
"I just want to make sure he's... He'll be good enough." He's careful, letting the words come out dragged and paused, as if any other tone could break me in half. A timid laugh escapes my throat, and I allow it to rub the side of my face against my chest.  
  
"Frank."  
  
"Junior?" He looks surprised, pulling away immediately to turn and stare at me in amazement. I shake my head. Bert laughs out loud. "I met him a few days ago; he's a sweet and even fun boy. Apparently..." He stops. He's measuring his words.  
  
"Apparently..."  
  
"No, no. Forge it." He shakes his head and pushes away those thoughts that intrigue me. I raise my eyebrows. "I hope you can conquer it. He told me he likes red fruits and tea; don't forget this."  
  
The boy drifts off my body and walks out of the room toward the bathroom. I try to be quick to put on my still-wet clothes and to be presentable in front of the mirror on the wall, migrating to the room where the boy is plunged into the water.  
  
Robert opens his eyes as I kneel beside him. He looks tired, and my hands massage his face. I'm about to leave him after months of a relationship, even if not necessarily loving, that makes me... It has done us so well that the probability of forgetting it is minimal. We are... Either we were an important part of each other's training, and now, leaving all that behind is like burning all the memories of a significant dead relative to not dealing with the pain.  
  
I lean over his body and let him touch me, kiss me and say goodbye. It's our goodbye; I cannot stop him. I don't even want to.  
  
"I hope you're happy with her." I murmur as I pulled away and massaged the strands of his hair. He nods and stares down at my hand, then smiles sweetly.  
  
"I hope you can conquer it, even though you know it will not be easy." I stand up after kissing his forehead long, holding my hat to my chest. Bert rests his head on the edge. "See you any day."  
  
"See you any day, my dear." My steps toward the door are rushed. If I look back, I will see again his desolate look and full of longing and maybe he will make me want another moment. And I don't have another moment. The sun is about to rise.  
  
"Gerard!" He screams. I catch my breath in my throat.  
  
"Say it."  
  
"Thank you." He's red. I lean against the jamb, the shadow of a smile running down my lips.  
  
"You're welcome."


	13. Aura.

Alicia has a basket in one of her arms and picks the flowers that spread in families of colors across the length of the field when I reach the property's fence. From here she looks like an enchanted child with a butterfly, so I look down at her belly and realize that it had grown a little since the last time I paid attention to such a thing. His smile resembles that of Lindsey when she used to sit in the shade of a tree to read a book.  
  
I run my hands roughly across my face and march toward the entrance, receiving his impressed gaze and greeting her with a nod. The day is clear already, it must be seven in the morning and breakfast is probably ready. I don't have the head to climb the stairs to my room and I migrate to the corridor bathroom, too exhausted from the walk here to spend less than half an hour underwater.  
  
Yesterday was undoubtedly one of the best days of my life, but today is supposed to be the worst. I met Frank already, I touched him, I even hugged him and I wonder if that was the only time I was so close to him and if I have to just admire him, as I have done for so long. Will not I ever get close to him enough to have a soft conversation and subtle touches?  
  
No. I refuse. I shouldn't think negatively. I cannot let these stupid assumptions make me give up on Venus.  
  
Simmons smiles as I sit beside her for breakfast and leaves the flower that swirled in the basket on the chair to the left. I have no stomach; and I do not know exactly why.  
  
"Guadalupe was worried, Gerard. "She murmurs after handing me the bag of breads. Her comment doesn't bring any news. Since Guadalupe had become my governess, six and a half years ago, I cannot spend more than eight hours away from the poor old woman. A smile welcomes my lips.  
  
I've been smiling a lot in the last few days. I have to stop.  
  
"You're gone all night. The poor woman couldn't sleep." Go on, using a sizable piece of cake. I shake my shoulders.  
  
"Guadalupe cares too much, but I don't blame her." I really blame myself, that I don't have much responsibility for most of my acts, and I end up leaving almost everyone around me with a flea behind the ear. Alicia's lips twitch. "I'm just full these days. It seems like the whole country has decided to hire my services and forgot that I only have two hands."  
  
"Awesome hands, by the way." I agree, because if there is anything I have learned from my acquaintance with Jamia, it is that if someone lets off some compliment or even flirtation, it is best to agree to convince him otherwise with false modesty. The girl relaxes against the backrest. "Michael came to visit me last night. It was strange."  
  
"Any special reason?"  
  
"He's scared." _Please don't tell me that his feelings are exhaling and you take them as your own. I'm not in one of my most patient weeks._ "Your parents have..."  
  
"Have them been stupid the way they've been for twenty-nine years?" Alicia widens her clear eyes, shaking her head again and again. Why am I not impressed?  
  
"Donald is trying to get him against you, and..."  
  
"Tell your fiancé that any comment against me means you're out of here." She swallows hard, abandoning the coffee cup on the saucer. My finger is tight and my expression is probably severe. A hysterical chuckle dances in the back of my throat.  
  
"But I am not... I'm not directly involved."  
  
"I know that, Simmons."  
  
"Then why should I leave?"  
  
"Because that's the only way to make him stand by me without the risk of being fooled." I shrug. She lets out the air I did not even notice being trapped. "You don't seem to know the groom himself."

  
**Ω**

  
Jamia is pale, icy, trembling. When she opened the door, I didn't think I would find her in this catatonic state, trying to breathe uselessly and holding her hand against her chest like a cardiorespiratory wall. I drop the overcoat on the door post and watch it, trying to figure out what happened before she told me.  
  
She never looked so terrified.  
  
"Jamia, what's the problem?" I support her, squeezing her forearms. My friend breathes once, twice, ten times, before lifting her hands with her palms forward and closing her eyes. "Jamia."  
  
"Go to the reception room. And, please, control yourself."  
  
The last time I said something like that, it was about ...  
  
It cannot be.  
  
My footsteps are swift toward the living room, my suitcase is leaning against the wall and the door is opened with rudeness. Sitting on the couch, with his big purse resting on his lap and the huge colored eyes running curiously through the room, is Frank. Perfect in his innocence.  
  
"Frank Iero?"  
  
"Gerard!" He screams and jumps off the couch, hurrying up to me to shake my hand. I try to smile, but I'm too nervous to let it go with a grimace.  
  
"What are you doing here, boy? Your parents must be looking for you..."  
  
"Nah, they know I'm here." There is a fact about Venus that did not know: he talks a lot, and fast. It's something that would naturally annoy me, though coming from it sounds wonderful. "Considering that my final exams are gone and I've taken notes high enough so that I do not have to worry about the university, my afternoons would become nothing more than a peek through the window and tea at five unbearable. So I convinced my parents to let me visit you." He walks about in the room, then swerves and walks down the hall to the main hall. I follow him less than a meter, trying to digest every word that comes out of his mouth. It seems like there's someone puking letters in my brain, and my head hurts.  
  
"Why did you decide that my studio would be a pleasant place to spend afternoons? We do not do much more than exude stress and talk about futilities." Frank stops suddenly, right next to a table that supports the most liquid paints I have, and his look is shrewd. Jamia disappeared. I hold my breath in my throat.  
  
"Well, I don't know if my father talked about it, but what I like most is poetry, and for about eight weeks there is no landscape I pass through, and this includes the mountains, or creature beautiful enough to bring me any inspiration to the point of letting the art escape. And since Frank has been too busy lately, my only source of inspiration is you." He smiled. I let out a loud breath. Anthony speaks too loudly. Why am I not bothered? "I hope you don't mind. I promise to be quiet most of the time."  
  
"I find it difficult." My voice is hesitant. He chuckles like a child.  
  
"I am capable of unimaginable things, Gerard Way."  
  
I'm trying to digest the last ones. And that includes the eighteen-year-old boy who I'm in love with sitting in my bank telling me he's going to spend some afternoons here. In my studio. In my company.  
  
I wonder how those afternoons will be. He will sit somewhere around the room, probably in the armchairs in the corners, and focus his eyes so beautiful on me, evaluating every movement of mine with the same critical sense of his father and possibly discovering every secret I hide behind the lines thicker than trace. In the meantime, my fingers will be trembling and my head hardened toward the screen, resisting the temptation to look at it until the world ends.  
  
Is falling in love with me unimaginable?  
  
"Ah!" He yells again and pulls me roughly out of my head. I blink again and again. It is a lot to me. "This is your place... I'm sorry. I'm going to sit at the window and..."  
  
"All right, Frank". I raise my hands, asking him to calm down. He smiled. "I think I understood."  
  
I watch him run into the main hall and return with his backpack, sitting on the bench tied to the window in complete silence, his eyes turned to my frozen figure beside the entrance. I swear I'm trying to get out of this shock.  
  
I'm slow toward the bench in front of the screen in half, sitting up sloppily in dizziness. My head turns; my body continues to stiffen.  
  
He's right behind me.  
  
"So ... What do you write about?" I'm really trying to start a conversation about work with the boy, which I want to declare with all my convictions as if this is the best way to approach him? Yes I am.  
  
"Uhn. About love." He looks excited, and I need to cut him off before he even starts firing and explaining everything. I turn my head to face him and open a small smile. My body shakes when I find its lights. They are almost golden by the light.  
  
"What does an eighteen-year-old boy know about love? Never should have lived one." I need to tease him. Anthony casts a childish beak on his lips and looks up for a moment.  
  
"Well, that's true. I've never lived a love or anything of the kind." He turns to me. Bend his body forward and support the elbows on his knees. "But that's what the writer is for. If you think of art, music, and even dance, and you can't put yourself in another's shoes, maybe you shouldn't try. What good is living in a comfort zone? Exploring other genres can be wonderful."  
  
"I could have agreed if I had not been painting for two years on the same subject."  
  
"You have not learned to manage your emotions yet. I can help you with that if you want." He offers himself, throwing one shoulder forward. I shake my head.  
"Try it."  
  
Venus jumps off the bench and comes up quickly and gracefully, cowering in space beside me in the chair, forcing me to slip a little to the side to prevent it from falling to any move. He analyzes the painting in front of him with narrow eyes and contracted lips as if he had the greatest experience.  
  
And I... I'm stuck again. I do not remember when someone other than Jamia came so close to touching the knee in mine and sharing the same air, but it does not bother me, as much as I don't know him that well. My boy has a scar on his right cheek; his eyelashes are long and curved and his lips a little pinkish tone known to me. So beautiful that I could spend my entire life decorating his details.  
  
Anthony takes the brush between his fingers and offers it to me with frowning brows. It takes me a minute before I pick it up and divert it from his face. An ironic but low laugh escapes.  
  
"You can... Use lighter shades." He lifts one shoulder and tilts his head to the right. "Maybe I'll take some of that morbid aura away."  
  
"But I like the morbid aura."  
  
"Me too. Meanwhile..." He turns his face to me and wrinkles his mouth. "It only reflects the side, uhn, dark of your soul and... There is not only that, right?"  
  
"I... I guess."  
  
"Great!" Venus claps his hands. I swear hard, my ears aching. "Then show me your bright side."


	14. Tea.

I'm in a world full of sounds.  
  
On the outside, a strong drizzle hits the city and drives most people away, limiting them to the balconies of the open establishments and terraces of their own dwellings. The drops whip in my window and through it I can see how everything looks dead in a city that should be growing so fast, but they're scared; no one who takes pride in this place goes out in the rain to die. That must be why I'm not scared.  
  
On the inside, the environment is almost empty. In one corner, the fireplace is finally lit; on the other, the lights are off and form a pleasant pitch. There is no music playing. I do not feel cold or discomfort; I'm cozy with silence.  
  
"Gerard, open this!" The knocking on the door is strong. My soul froze as I stumble toward the entrance leaning against the walls to keep from smashing to the floor. "Hello!" Frank stands in front of me, dressed in black from head to toe and protected by an umbrella, holding a medium box and smiling.  
  
I give you room to enter.  
  
"Sorry. I should have been here an hour ago, but..." He stops suddenly, fading with his smile. Maybe because of my terrified expression. "Mom prepared a snack. I think you'll enjoy it."  
  
"Why are you here? It's raining!"  
  
"You don't want me here?" Venus sighs, leaning the box on the floor to remove his coat and place it on the jamb. I feel the muscles of my face relax as I stare at the way it twists the corners of my lips. "It's just a drizzle."  
  
"You could get sick."  
  
"My health is iron." He shakes his head and lifts the box. "Come in while the tea is still warm."  
  
Anthony heads toward the main hall, almost skipping. He puts the box on the table and opens it, pulling out a set of colored crockery to set it on the window seat and sit at one end. It took me a long moment to position myself in front of him.  
  
I cannot take my eyes off his face as he leans over what he has brought in, not even when he raises his head to give me a steaming cup. My hands hold it, automatic, but I'm... hypnotized in its figure.  
  
I'm falling.  
  
"I hope you like strawberries." He blows the liquid into his own cup. I look down at mine. "Anne picked them up yesterday afternoon."  
  
"Anne?"  
  
"My little sister. We're best friends, just like you and Jamia."  
  
I'm embarrassed.  
  
For the last week, Anthony has been in my studio every day at two in the afternoon to watch me and my friend. It pleases me to have him so close, so that I can smell the scent of his hair and hear his voice without effort, however much he can not touch or admire it for a long time; however, the fact that he didn't touch the same subject as the first time we spoke to me bothers me, as if I were gathering information about myself to use it against me later.  
  
I take a sip. The tea comes down burning.  
  
"Sometimes I think..." He starts. I interrupt.  
  
"How did you find out I was watching you?" My voice is firm, but I am fearful. Venus slows his movements by moving the porcelain from his lips and clasping his hands in his lap. He sighs, and leans against the wall.  
  
"I felt like I was being watched, and when I was looking for the one, there you were, with my eyes fixed on me." He explains, relaxing gradually. "I never understood why. People do not usually notice me." I want to ask how this is possible if he is so charming. He smiles bitterly. My heart leaps a beat. "Why did you look at me so much? I have nothing special."  
  
"Your eyes." _They are amazing. I could look at them for eternity that wouldn't be enough._ "...they are the same as my late wife." What the hell did I just say? He has absolutely nothing in common with Lindsey! "They bring back memories."  
  
"What was she like?"  
  
I don't want him to think that I still love her.  
  
"Lindsey was... Incredible. A woman of fiber." My boy does not seem satisfied, muxoxando, crossing his arms and shaping an irritated beak on his pigmented lips. I want to bite them. One more sip comes down burning and it's not the temperature of the drink. "We were more friends than husband and wife, if you wanted to know the truth. We married out of need, comfort, and then... She died, taking my son." I can see how the drizzle stopped slowly during these last moments, making room for the sun to shine and people to come out of their coats. I close my eyes and sigh.  
  
"Is that why you're so morbid?" His voice is cautious, almost affectionate. I feel his warmth getting closer and closer.  
  
"Yeah, that's why." I stare at him; his face is so close that we split the air again. "It's a kind of tribute."  
  
"Very well done, by the way." Venus just comments softly.  
  
I dare not answer him, because I'm too busy redecorating every trace of his features to do anything else.  
  
I'm still falling.  
  
"You don't like to talk about her, do you?"  
  
"Not exactly." I need to get up and go to the fireplace. His presence shakes me. "I just don't have intimacy with people. I don't have anyone to talk to."  
  
I feel his arms wrapping around my waist, steadying his body against mine and slamming them tightly around me. His skin is warm, soft, and I don't make any detours when I massage him close to the wrists, running my fingers through them almost conjugal trying to keep the sensation of having it under my touch.  
  
Our breaths are calm, his bouncing against the area between my shoulder blades, where his head rests. My body is not shaking, but my heart beats so hard that it hurts. I want to keep him here, firm to me, with his heat spreading through my insides and warming the edges of my heart that I didn't even remember being frozen.  
  
I put my hand on the wall over the fireplace.  
  
I fell.  
  
"You have me now." Anthony murmurs. A violent shiver runs through me. "We're friends, aren't we?"  
  
"Yes. We are."  
  
"Then you can talk to me." He slips away, standing beside me. I try to smile. "That's what friends do."  
_  
But I don't want to be just your friend, boy._  
  
"Come on. Let's finish the lunch."  
  
I look at it and cannot think of anything other than how each part of it fits perfectly. I've known so many men, boys all through life... But none, none is the same as him. Frank has the most beautiful smile ever seen, and when he turns to me, he is like the sun that appears after a very long season of storms.  
  
I need him to hold me back.  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't know that talking about her was so painful for you." Anthony whispers, his cheeks turning carmine. I scratch my eyes with my knuckles and turn to the window. I cannot face him or I'll kiss him.  
  
"You didn't know. It's not your fault."  
  
"Yes it is! I should not have gotten into your life and..."  
  
At the age of seventeen, when I decided that I would somehow work with painting, I realized that the mind of a human being can be comical. If I put something in the head, there is no one who will make me take it away unless a devastating disappointment makes it alone. It's like being fighting yourself; two extremes in a war to decide what to do until by exhaustion they give up and the original idea holds.  
  
Anthony is in the same way. He decided that he hurt me.  
  
"Iero, shut up or I'll send you to hell." My voice is steady, more than it should be. My boy's eyes widen as if I had stabbed him; his throat seems to close around something and he presses his back against the wall, looking much smaller than it already is.  
  
A shaky laugh escapes from the back of my throat.  
  
"Calm down, kid. I'm kidding."  
  
Venus sets on me with one arm raised. I try to deflect his false fury and my rib is struck by a shallow lid. I shrink against the window in a vain attempt to protect myself from the hands that clench my thick flesh at the hips, biting my lips to prevent their tickling from having any effect. He's on his knees on one of my thighs, and it's so small it could slip under my arm and snuggle up to my chest that we'd still be comfortable.  
  
And complete.  
  
"Don't you ever scare me like that again!" He scolds, raising his finger in a rist and practically rubbing it across my face. I detour once more. I cannot control myself. "I'm serious, Gerard." He slides away from my body and sits down on the table, leaning heavily on one of his hands at his side. I want to pull him into my lap. "Do not play with me. I'm not a child."  
  
"You're eighteen." Venus rolls her eyes. "Not too far from your boyhood."  
  
"You act like I'm innocent." _But you are, my angel; you are._  
  
"And you're not?" I raise an eyebrow.  
  
"Not even a little. I'm already a young adult." He smiles, and I feel a nuance of malice in the way his lips stretch to the left. My body lights up; he is exciting me.  
  
I cannot succumb.  
  
I walk to the other side of the room before I move forward and have his body even though it is on the paints. I need to close my hands in fists to stop them; tremble so hard that I give up trying to fit the palette into the canvas or my boy will notice my nervousness. Heat spreads from my body that should be frozen.  
  
Deep breath.  
  
"What are we going to do now?" Anthony suddenly stands behind me, craning his neck to try to see what I'm doing. The top of your head does not reach the line of my shoulder.  
  
"You, I don't know." I shake my shoulders. "But I... Well..."  
  
"You have to work." Sigh. He looks disappointed. "I didn't bring my notebook, so... I'd better go home."  
  
"Stay!" My voice sounds hysterical before I even think of what to say. I don't want him to go; I cannot let him go.  
  
"Why?" He's surprised.  
  
Because I want to be close to you.  
  
I look away from his face.  
  
"Because Jamia is traveling and... I just feel like this place is a dungeon." I'm desperate to stay here with him. "I have no obligations or commitments. Paint with me."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"As long as I don't yell."

He tilts his head back and giggles like a little kid. His hands are dirty with the most varied warm tones and his clothes as well. In the last minutes, I discovered that Anthony is extremely clumsy and messy. He must have knocked down half of my paint and soiled the floor, but I don't care a bit.  
  
I'm too busy admiring his tenderness.  
  
My boy likes landscapes. I have never stopped to analyze all those around me since I was born, much less portray them in some way. He is trying to reproduce the city from the view of the mountain. I can see him there, sitting in some of the caves scattered with a notebook and a graphite and a cup of tea, as he spends his afternoons there, tracing every point he captures with all his passion. I didn't know that he drew so well, and I smile.  
  
"My mom is going to kill me!" He rattles the sleeves of his blouse. Green paint drips on the floor. I hand him a handkerchief after leaning to the opposite side so it doesn't get stained. I don't think I've ever, never in twenty-nine years, laughed so much in such a short space of time. "Look at this! It's all green!"  
  
"I like Green. It's my favorite color." I mumble. My voice is hoarse and my throat burns.  
  
"Me too". He clasps his hands and turns to face me.  
  
"Your eyes are green."  
  
"How did you..." he asks, holding up a finger. Was I the only one who noticed the blue nuance in his flames outside the strong sun? "Oh. I forgot you're a painter."  
  
I shake my head as I watch him move to the sink and get as much of the paint as possible in his hands. Venus hums something that seems to be his own composition, yet I'm not sure. His musical voice is sweet, in contrast to how thick it sounds to a boy his age, and I feel as if I heard birdsong on the first morning of spring. I close my eyes and tilt my head to the side, cradling me.  
  
I want you to sing for me to sleep.  
  
"It's dark now!" He changes drastically and pulls me out of my reverie, letting out a scream. He turned immediately, finding him leaning out the window and pushing the curtains sideways. My heart is racing. "Linda must be crazy!" I look at the clock on the wall. It is little past six at night.  
  
"Don't be exaggerated, boy."  
  
"You aren't understanding! "He runs for his coat at the entrance. "We're talking about Woodley Street! Do you have any idea how empty that place is at night?" My boy looks desperate. "I know I should be facing it like a man and feigning all the courage of the world, but I also know that if I don't leave now I will take a horrendous risk!"  
  
"Frank." I stop him. My ears throb. Maybe it's a bit too exaggerated. "The city has three thousand five hundred inhabitants or less. There have been no thefts or murders within the boundaries of the hills since I understood myself as human, and we know that I am not so young." Venus approaches cautiously, hugging his clothes against his chest. Sigh. "I can take you home if you want, but remember we're in a small town, not the capital you're used to."  
  
"Would you take me?" His voice is low now, whispered, childish. I shake my head.  
  
"If it keeps you from being frightened like a damsel in distress, yes. Woodley is half a mile before my house."  
  
"Would you do that for me?" Oh no. Not this little voice. I close my eyes again, my back to him toward the door, and clench my hands into fists. I cannot let him know.  
  
"I would do that for anyone." It's not as good a response as he expected, but it's still worth my neck.  
  
"So I'm not special to you, Gerard?" He fails during speech.  
  
"I didn't say that." I look over my shoulder. Venus is trapped, huddled against his own body. "Come on, Frank. Before it's too late."  
  
Soon he is by my side, to which we walk along the long street leading to the "exit" of the city. It's not as cold as it was earlier, though, I can clearly see him shake. No wonder.  
We passed the fair; everything is being closed down gradually and the few people who prowl there scatter to their respective homes. My boy watches everything with his huge prying eyes, his arms crossed and his shoulders bent. My first instinct is to hug him and squeeze him against my chest, but I know he'd probably escape and run away. Although I consider myself a friend, we have no intimacy to exchange any kind of caresses. In addition, it is prohibited.  
  
"Why did you look so impressed when I said I'd bring you home?" I cannot stand being with him and not listening to him. Although the fact of being chatty can irritate me from time to time, I love his voice.  
  
"People don't do me any favors." He's whispering. "Most of the time they cannot stand me, to tell you the truth. Then it's really strange that you offer to bring me without asking for something in return."  
  
"Is that why your parents protect you so much?"  
  
"Yeah, that's why." He comes closer to my body as if he were looking for warmth. "They think that by pampering me, giving me everything I want, they will obviate the need for alien acceptance that we all have. It doesn't always work."  
  
"Try to supply the sentimental with the material. There is nothing more stupid, I must say."  
  
"Your parents were like that, too?" He takes another step closer. My body is about to go into shock.  
  
"Until they realized that all the gifts they gave me were going to end up in the attic."  
  
He looks down at his own feet and dares not come any closer. At this point, we are already rounding the corner that leads to your street. The houses are huge, and I need a minute to recognize what should be yours: the last and largest. He does not seem happy to reach the gates.  
  
Anthony shakes as he turns the key in the lock of the gate. We cross a long stone walkway until we reached the small staircase leading to the front door. His arm is brushing against mine, creepy. The orange light that escapes through the windows informs us that they should be having dinner.  
  
My boy knocks twice on the door, hard. Seconds later, it opens and Frank appears on the threshold. He is scared to find me next to his son, but soon he opens a welcoming smile. Behind him, Linda reaches out to receive the boy.  
  
Venus looks at me briefly, as if thanking me silently, and stalks in, hugging his mother awkwardly. I feel as if the hug that I had given hours ago was more real.  
  
"Thank you for bringing Frank safe, Gerard."  
  
"The boy was scared and is part of my way." I try to sound as sincere as possible. "Have a good night. I turn away, but Frank rests his hand on my shoulder.  
  
"Come and have dinner with us tomorrow. It's the end of the week and Lindacan prepare one of her best dishes." He looks at his wife, who acquiesces and kisses the son's head. In his caramelized eyes, I can see the request for me to agree.  
  
It is an opportunity to spend more time in his company.  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Great!" My ex-teacher shouts. I know who the boy pulled. "Be here at seven. We will be very happy to welcome you." I look over his shoulder one more time. His five daughters gathered around his mother, next to the blond boy. A tiny creature holds Anthony's hand. It must be Anne, his little sister.  
  
"I'll be here tomorrow."  
  
I cannot do much more than give him a shy smile and march toward the exit. The family seems welcoming to me, but Frank's company can sometimes bother me. My head swings.  
  
I need to get home soon.  
  
Alicia and Guadalupe welcome me with a large table. If I'm not mistaken, today the girl is five months pregnant. Should I congratulate her, or pretend I don't remember? Lindsey died at five months.  
  
I cannot stay here and leave the table before I finish the meal. The two women remain there, talking about names. My brother wants the child to take his name. The girl wants to be a girl named Joan. My late wife and I never reached a consensus on the name of what I would discover after being a boy. Eliza. Benjamin. Jane. Lucca. Tomaz. Herman.  
  
I fall into bed, not caring to remove my clothes properly. I'm mentally too exhausted to think about doing all the daily ritual before bed and just let the sheets embolem me in a tight and cozy hug. I know the rain is about to return. The wood moans in the fire.  
  
I do not want to think about anything.  
  
I can not think of anything.  
  
In fact, I can barely breathe.  
  
I'm afraid to think of something.


	15. Close.

I am euphoric or very close to it.  
  
Jamia returned during this early morning, when all that was heard about the wolves in the mountains and the burning of the woods in the burning fireplaces in each house, and I can see how, even under the apparent fatigue in the Purplish pockets around your eyes, she is rejuvenated. The trip to the capital did her good, I must admit. She even smiles more.  
  
My friend hugged me hard when she reached the studio. Her hair is wet, falling on her back and moistening part of her clothing. She must have left in a hurry; perhaps for homesickness. I remember the time when I accepted invitations to exhibit my paintings at almost every event in the big cities around the country and how I felt when I got here; exhausted, but proud.  
  
She goes into the main hall slightly; herr steps are heavy. My head and back are too sore to go after her now. I didn't sleep well tonight and I know it's because of the excitement of finding Frank in a few hours.  
  
"Gerard Arthur Way". Jamia scolds from a distance. I don't know exactly why, but I feel my guts freezing and my heartbeat accelerates. I feel she's going to kill me. "Come here now."  
  
And I will go. Before she comes pulling me by the ears.  
  
Nestor's arms folded, her jaw locked, her eyes narrow, accusers. Right next to her, the picture I painted yesterday with Anthony waits anxious for the trial.  
  
I smile  
  
"Who drew this? You don't like portray landscapes." When I say that she is the person who knows me most (perhaps because she is the only one who can put up with me daily without deciding to go to sanitarium), I am not bluffing.  
  
"Uhn..." A battle forms within me. On the one hand, the urge to tell you everything about the last afternoon corrodes me. On the other hand, the fear of having to listen to a lecture leaves me with one foot behind.  
  
"Gerard, don't tell me that..." Jamia is stunned.  
  
"Yeah. Me and Anthony, we..."  
  
"Did you kiss the boy?" She screams. It's as if everyone around me had decided to scream in the place of normally speaking just to get me off the hook. I hate when they scream at me.  
  
Except Anthony. I could never hate him.  
  
"Jamia, I'm not so reckless."   
  
"Gerard... It will not do you any good. Nothing that you have surrounded you in recent times will do you good." She whispers, walks away from the picture and goes to the fireplace, clasping her hands behind her back. I stand in the same place, leaning against the corridor wall.  
  
"I feel you don't like me, Jamia. You have criticized all my attitudes!" I'm trying not to scream, but...  
  
Gods.  
  
"I do not want you well?" She screams again. I close my eyes. "When you asked for Lindsey in marriage, I told you that it would all fall apart for some time because you couldn't live with someone who didn't have the characteristics that appeal to you, and look what happened! She died, and the child never met you.".  
  
Nestor is out of control, desperate... Tears cover her eyes.  
  
And mine.  
  
"Alicia's in your house now. A pregnant girl of five months, the same age as the baby who didn't arrive. Yo'll see your youngest brother take that little creature in his arms when all you dreamed of throughout your teenage years was to leave an offspring, your memory in this world? Or will you be able to see the girl in the final stage of pregnancy, unable to climb stairs and eating everything she sees in front of her, crazy enough to drive that being out of her womb?"  
  
"I..."  
  
"In a few months, when the epidemic disappears and everything goes back to normal, Frank Iero won't think twice about returning to the capital and resuming his life in a commercial center where he earns rivers of money, taking his family together, and Anthony is part of this family. Even if you get into a romantic relationship, whatever... I find it very difficult, considering that you took months to find someone like Robert and the boy seems too pure for such a thing... Anyway. Some time, he'll have to leave. Some time, you will have to forget it. Some time, everything you have lived will be dust. Some time, everything will be just a reminder of a good time. Some time, everything will be over. And you have no more psychological structure for that."  
  
My heart leaps to beat.  
  
"I've been thinking about what love has been doing for almost sixteen years. It burns, it destroys, it ends."  
  
She's referring to Judith.  
  
Jamia still loves the girl with all her heart, but knows that everything that has passed now is not equivalent to anything. The poor redhead is trapped by her husband; My friend is full of commitments and they can not go far beyond a quick glance when they bump into one another. Cannot touch her love, cannot love herr love.  
  
She's not talking about me.  
  
She's talking about herrself.  
  
"Jamia..." My voice falters.  
  
The sob that looses is like a thousand knives running through my chest.  
  
I hasten to embrace her, perhaps more strongly than I should. And she faints, letting her body fall on mine, her legs limp and her arms barely closing around me.  
  
I want to tell her that it will be okay. However, it will not.  
  
Nothing will be alright.  
  
My heart is falling apart at every sob and agonized noise I hear.  
  
"Calm down." I try to sound hard, but I'm just shaking. My friend walks away with difficulty and scratches her eyes with her knuckles. "You've cried too much for this girl." I feel the taste of bile on my tongue.  
  
"And what should I do?"   
  
"Runaway with her."  
  
To sum up the work (by that I mean, from the long minutes we spent in silence staring at one another, she, disbelieving, impatient), I feel as if all the symphony that Anthony had brought to me in the last few days has disappeared in a single gust And transformed the world into a sickly silent place.  
  
"What did you say?" She stutters, shocked.   
  
"You've been planning to run away with her for three months. And as you say, desperate situations call for desperate action." I feel like our roles are reversed, and I'm fine with it. "You have enough money, Jamia. That's not to say you'll have to stop painting, just... Do it somewhere else and keep your personal life hidden, as it does so well. It will not be so difficult."  
  
I'm talking so fast I need to breathe three times before I start over. Perhaps living with Venus brought me such a characteristic.  
  
"Do you really think I should?"  
  
To be honest, the answer is no. Not because I do not support your happiness; I do it with all I can. But why... Jamia has been my best friend since I understood people. She's always been there since early adolescence, mocking at being getting taller than I am and giving me the best advice a young woman could, even when everything around her collapsed when her parents forced her to abandon her name. I still remember him perfectly, just as I do with every moment when she looked like a rock, but in fact it was only a piece of what was once porcelain.  
  
I cannot let her go and leave me here alone.  
  
But I cannot be selfish.  
  
Jamia has carried my heart with her and the protege for so long that I now find myself obliged to take him back and let her take care of herself as well as her love.  
  
Sigh.

"Yes, you must." I'm more confident than I should be. She looks up, afraid. "Before Klaus..."  
  
"Do not finish." Nestorr raises her hand, asking for silence. I obey immediately. "But and you? How will it be?"  
  
"I'm almost thirty, my dear" I smile. "I can deal with this."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Jamia, worry about getting Judith out of the house. About me, I can turn around. It's not so difficult."  
  
I see her swallowing reluctantly before marching to me, shocking her body into my other embrace, tighter than the first. I repay in the same intensity, because I know it will be one of the last.  
  
She kisses my face.  
  
"I love you, damn you."  
  
"I love you too."

  
**Ω**

Jamia left the studio shortly after lunch at the restaurant where young Bert works. I must say I was glad to see him, especially when I realized how radiant and smiling he was. Maybe it's settled and I'm forgotten. That's nice; very good.  
  
My friend decided she's going to wait a few more days to leave, at least until Klaus relies on his wife in the slightest, and starts unlocking the front door to make the escape less dangerous. Until then, she will finish her orders and pass the deed from her home to someone trustworthy.

The large mirror in the room reflects the way my eyes look tired under a thin layer of excitement. I had never realized how green they were, almost olive. They frighten me in the middle of the black hairs.  
  
I finish packing the green overcoat on my shoulders and leave the visiting room, where the mirror covers the wall parallel to the windows. It's already dark, the streets are empty and the way to the Iero is strangely quiet.   
  
Venus did not show up this afternoon, maybe for the dinner we'll have in a few minutes.  
  
The house lights are lit in every room on the lower floor. I can feel the heat that covers the environment from where I am.  
  
I knock on the door. Seven o'clock.  
  
Frank Iero appears on the threshold with a smile and invites me inside. The apparent housekeeper takes my heavy clothes and takes them away before we cross an extensive hall that opens into a room almost double that of my house. Everyone present stands up as soon as we arrive, and I can see young blondes like Linda and brunettes as my former teacher with the robust blond guy.  
  
But I do not see my boy.  
  
"Where's Frank Jr?""The patriarch voices what's on my mind. Linda looks around.  
  
"It must be around here." She smiles. "Come on. Let's have dinner."  
  
We follow her down the hall to the dining room, where a table decorated by candles and more food than necessary for only ten people stretches. At the back of the room, facing the balcony, there is a black piano.  
  
"Frank, dear, where are you?"  
  
"I'm here!" His loud voice echoes through the room, and his head comes up behind it.  
  
This kid is undoubtedly the most beautiful human being.  
  
He is dressed in white and blue, like a little sailor. He approaches pusillanimously, his hands tightening on the hem of his blouse and reddish cheeks, and I can see how the clothes fit perfectly into his slender body. Shaggy hair falls into his eyes and he smiles.  
  
"Hello. Welcome." He whispers.  
  
"Well," Linda claps her hands. "Let's have dinner before it gets cold."  
  
Frank and his wife sit at the headwaters at once. Venus keeps his gaze fixed on me until we finally creep into the chairs closest to his father, sitting facing each other, to which the family members spread across the table. He puts a lock of straight hair behind his ear, turning his gaze to his plate.  
  
He's the only one on the table who has no meat.  
  
I'm completely seduced.  
  
"You're going to die before you eat a piece of pork, are you?" The blonde guy, who is sitting beside him, pokes him at the ribs. My boy squirms in the chair and pushes his hand away, letting out a hoarse laugh. Jealousy rises in my head.  
  
"No, eww!!" He's smiling. He's smiling at this damn boy!  
  
"Bob, stop stuffing my brother!" The girl next to me points a small, menacing fork at the blonde. He raises his hands in surrender. She turns to me. Her eyes are exactly the same as Venus, in an interesting mix of those of his parents. "Frank hates meat, did you know? He says that animals shouldn't die because we are never satisfied and we need to go after them to meet unrealistic needs. Everyone can be satisfied with fruits and vegetables." She giggles in the same way as her brother, who presses his fist against his mouth in a vain attempt to contain his laughter. "You shouldn't eat meat. Meat is bad."  
  
"I try." Frank and Linda watch us with amused looks.  
  
"Anne and Frank inherited from some supernatural force the urge to chatter incessantly until they lost their voice." The woman explains with a smile. "Do not want to see them talking together on the same subject. It becomes unbearable."  
  
"Is nothing!" Anne rebounds and casts an irritated beak on her thin lips. I look at Venus. He's focused on me.  
  
"I hold this kid three hours a day. I think I have a vague idea." I provoke. He is offended.  
  
"You never complain!"  
  
"You do not even give me room to sneeze!"  
  
Frank explodes in a trembling chuckle at my side, just like his older daughters. They hide their faces with their hands, trying to contain the laughter that escapes their throats and fill the environment. Linda brings a glass of wine to her lips.  
  
Anthony glares at me with a fake hurt expression and rolls his eyes at his own family, in a more than ordinary behavior of his person. I stare into his face until he smiles and pushes his hair away from his shoulders, leaning over the table to support his face in his hand.  
  
I feel at home here.  
  
I feel at home looking at him.  
  
"Honey, did you tell him about school?" The woman asks innocently. My boy raises his head and frowns.  
  
"I have not had a chance yet."  
  
"Worst time of my life." The girl who looks like the older one grunts, grinning. Everyone laughs.  
  
"Frank had the best marks in the class, just as Delia did at her age. A pride." Frank Iero comments with his hand on his chest. His son turns to me with a look of regret. He does not like this subject.  
  
"I bet I do." That's all I'm saying.  
  
I dare not extend the subject, because he is uncomfortable and nauseous. Anne smiles at me in appreciation, as if she knows exactly what goes on in her brother's mind. And maybe that's why they seem so close.  
  
He is relieved, very low, when the blonde asks me about my work. I don't want to talk because it's not easy to talk about, but Anthony...  
  
He wants me to talk to get his attention.  
  
I need you to get his attention.  
  
"My son." Frank calls. Both I and him get cold. "Touch us."  
  
Magnificent.  
  
Anthony nodded and stood up slowly, crawling across the room to the piano. He tosses his head to the side as he sits down and positions his fingers on the keys. He does not want to touch, but he does. And it's delicate. And it's sweet.  
  
I feel the melody make me drunk as I stare at him.  
  
I cannot look away. I cannot look away. He's just so talented that I feel like the world pauses for the music to play uninterrupted. His shoulders move rapidly, back and forth, and his face is drooping as if facing the work of his fingers, but his eyes are closed.  
  
Venus is wonderful.  
  
"Tell me if that bastard is not great!" The boy Bob whispers under the music, smiling. Volvo me for it. Must not be less than twenty years old.  
  
"He is incredible." I'm hoarse.  
  
I feel Anthony's gaze on me.  
  
His parents smile at each other proudly. Two of her sisters seem annoyed as Anne shakes her head from side to side looking drunk and the twins attack the respective plates.  
  
He beats the piano and the music.  
  
"Mom, I'm going to show the house to Gerardd, okay?" Linda agrees with a gesture. Everyone turned to me. "I have some drawings he might want to see."  
  
Venus marches out of the room and I follow immediately, asking for leave. He locks my arm as we step out of her family's field of vision and pulls me to the left to circle the stairs leading to the upper floor.  
  
He presses against me.  
  
"Are you in a bad mood today, boy?" I look more worried than I should, massaging his forearm with my free hand.  
  
"That's almost it." He opens a wooden door to enter. It's an office. "I hope you don't mind staying here for a few minutes."  
  
"I don't care." And I do not. Not when I know he wants to be alone with me.  
  
He sits down on the table and swings his feet.  
  
"It's just... They've put me on a pedestal since I was born. Anthony does this, Anthony does that, 'like no one.'" He's down, but I'm stuck with myself." His lights are gilded by the light of the room. I approach until I sit in the chair in front of her. "That's why Elizabeth and Delia want distance from me. They say our parents devalue them because of me."  
  
He sits down. My hand tightens on his knee.  
  
"Have you felt that way?" He looks so sad now.  
  
"My whole teenage years." I'm not lying. My parents have charged me with so many impossible things for me for so long that I cannot tell. "You feel obligated to be perfect. But you're not."  
  
"Yes! That's it!" He screams. I try not to look away because I'm blushing. "I do everything they want even if I don't like them... Ballroom dancing and high notes are because of that. I cannot disappoint them. I'm already unbearable enough."  
  
"You're not unbearable."  
  
"Yes I am!" He's almost crying. "Most people cannot stand me for ten minutes, and if they do, it's because they're forced to stay, and they get so angry that they never want to see me again." He sobs. The sound passes like an arrow poisoned by my heart. "My whole life was like this, so I make up for the lack of company filling my mind with activities that will please my parents, but not me. No one but Anne really likes me."  
  
"I like you."  
  
I don't know how I let those words escape my mouth. I should have kept quiet, but ... I feel he needs me. And I'm not saying this to feel better. That's what I feel.  
  
He scratches his wet eyes with his knuckles and sniffs, lowering his tense shoulders as he caresses me. I don't smile; I don't do anything.   
  
It is pure insecurity.  
  
"What if you get tired of me?"   
  
"I will not tire of you." I want to kiss him and say that I'd rather die than walk away from him. However, I only sigh. "We're friends... Right?"  
  
 _Friends._  
  
"Yes, but..."  
  
"Anthony, stop making drama. You're way better than that."  
  
My boy jumps off the table and faces me, stretching out his hands. I pick them up without a second thought, a sick need to feel his skin, and he pulls me up into a hug that catches me by surprise. His heart is racing; I can feel it against my belly. I will not let go until he calm down.  
  
"It's beating fast." I whisper as if there's someone else here. Venus grazes my face in my chest like a cub.  
  
How long have we been in here?  
  
"Don't want to stop." His voice is drawn.  
  
"Feel mine." That's the first thing that comes to my mind. It was the same when Michael was a frightened little child and had nightmares. "Listen to him. It will slow you down". He takes a deep breath more than once, turning his head so that his ear comes in close contact with my skin.  
  
It takes more than it should.  
  
I can see the time passing by as I massage your wires. They are silky and fine.  
  
"Are you calm now?" I use my hands to lift his face and capture his eyes. They are not so swollen anymore. "Your parents must be worried."  
  
"They're not really." He says bitter. We are so close and so far away. "But I want dessert."  
  
"You're a little boy, Anthony."  
  
My boy.  
  
I move away from him with difficulty; I don't want to let go, but I must. The house looks scary outside this door, but I open it.  
  
I want so much to turn around for him.  
  
"Gerard." He calls. "Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome, boy."


	16. Time after time.

"Have you heard what happened to the youngest of the Cyprians?" My father pulled the end of the thread that would break an oversized sweater when the silence was so uncomfortable that even my brother's cats had left the dining room. Henry Cipriano was a fifteen-year-old blond boy who was in my Arts class and had magical hands. His father was the pastor of the town church and his brothers served in the army, while he just wanted to be a sculptor.  
  
"Is he okay?" Michael frowned. My little brother was so selfless at the time that his current behavior impressed me.  
  
"Alexander took him out of the house." Donna spoke for the first time that day. My throat went dry, because I knew what the boy was. And what I was. "They detained him in a sanitarium. They say that his father's religious intervention didn't work, because the possession is too advanced. "  
  
I was incredulous. Owned? Sweet Henry?  
  
"What did he do to think he's possessed?"  
  
"He was getting involved with another boy lovingly. No one knows who the brat is, since he ran away as soon as the pastor found them in his bedroom, to the kisses." Donald was disgusted, wrinkling his face as if he had eaten something spoiled. I cringed against the back of the chair and pretended that my breathing didn't begin to deregulate. "They exorcised him twice in the last week. Henry insisted that he was healed and had been possessed, tempted by the enemy - though no one believed him. He was taken to a sanatorium in the capital and will be taken there only when the doctors confirm the cure of his illness."  
  
Disease? **Disease?**  
  
I will never be able to understand why they judge our condition as if it were something from another evil world. Did Henry really want to fall in love with that boy and go against the dogmas of his family and town just for tantrums? Or was he just one in a million, just like me, who had been born differentiated, excluded from the common laws of attraction and human passion?  
  
Common is not synonymous with certain. Soon, he wasn't ... _Wrong_.  
  
He was just a boy.  
  
"I think it's very well done. With this punishment he will learn to be a man." My father continued. I glanced at my almost untouched plate. "Where did you ever see a man in love with another man?"  
  
"Donald, do not be cruel," Donna asked quietly. "Henry is only fifteen. He's just older than our Gerard. "  
  
"The boy made his choice, woman. And do not you dare disagree with me. "  
  
When did all those who judged you choose to like the opposite sex? I never felt like I had a choice.  
  
I went to bed that night with a sore head and tense shoulders. I couldn't imagine the pain the boy must have been feeling alone in that place, cowering against the icy wall of a tiny cell, being treated like a monster to the one who tried to fight his own nature because the people around him were too stupid to accept it, and take care of their own lives.  
  
I never found out.  
  
Henry was released six months later. His doctors (all christians, like the overwhelming majority of our country) claimed that he was cured and ready to get a bride. His father went looking for him just before the sun went down, but the boy was never able to return to his hometown.  
  
The story they told was that the two were caught by criminals on the mud road that linked the two cities. Alexander took it ugly - indeed, I must say that I saw only one or two bruises on his face, as if it were an alibi - but "he was much bigger than the brats who attacked them, so he survived"; while the boy ... According to his own father, he was so small and so thin that he could not handle the various fractures all over his body.  
  
The whole thing was grotesque, but the words of that man didn't convince me. Nor his tears at the funeral that gathered all Toamna to forgive Henry.  
  
"My son has always been a good boy." He continued, on the altar and behind the wine table. Michael pressed his body against mine, and I put my arm around his shoulders. My brother didn't want to be there; least of all myself. "But he was tempted, and fell on his head. He let himself be carried away by the petty words of the enemy who destroyed our once-happy and united family." Of course. So close that they sent the boy off at the first opportunity. "He did the abomination, and we fought to the end that he might recover; though he ..." He took a deep breath. I rolled my eyes at her false tears. "He was punished before he had the opportunity to ask for forgiveness before Christ."  
  
Sometimes I wondered - I still do, in fact, but less often - why God would be so cruel as to end the life of a boy as young and as good as Henry Cipriano. My problem is not Christianity itself - Jesus looked like a nice guy - but like he is pictured here on Earth. Can a "sin" really be able to nullify all the wonderful things someone has done throughout life and send it to hell?  
  
That day I discovered that I would not be able to believe the supposed divinity that had led Henry away.  
  
It rained as the coffin was taken out of the church. Alexander went ahead with his inseparable Bible, and his wife seemed too calm for a woman who had just lost her youngest son. Hours later I asked Donna how she would feel if I or my brother died; his answer was only:  
  
"My coffin would be on the side."  
  
That's when I discovered that my mother loved me too.  
  
Beside me on the way, a curly-haired young man kept his fist pressed against his mouth, mingling with the crowd following the small cemetery on the edge of town, shaking so hard he looked like a rickety in the cold and trying to contain the tears that slipped by his protruding cheeks. He stayed away from everyone, next to a tree, when the coffin was lowered and hidden by the earth. Maybe he didn't want to see the scene; or maybe he was just trying to clear his nose and stop the sobs before anyone noticed.  
  
My footsteps were silent.  
  
"You were his lover." I might be lynched afterwards for talking to him if he really was the young man who had fled through the Cyprian window on the fateful night-not that I cared.  
  
"What? No-no!" His voice was fainter than that of someone about to die from a blitz. I frowned.  
  
"You're crying more than everyone here. Don't act like I'm a complete fool." I was being completely nosy and knew it, but maybe it was the only support that boy could have. And it was a great opportunity to get a trusted friend, too.  
  
"Alexander killed him." He looked up at the heavens, as if searching for any trace of the blond in the dark clouds or the drops that hurt our faces and heads, then he turned to me. He failed miserably at controlling his voice. "There are no criminals in these gangs, or at least not beaters of innocent people, and the pastor was too embarrassed by his off-color son to accept showing his face again here."  
  
"Henry said that?" Intrusive. No doubt.  
  
"He wrote from his cell." A pained smile spread across his fleshy lips. "He was amazing, you know? A wonderful sculptor; wanted to make angels to decorate the house he would buy in the capital. Plus, um ... um ..." His eyes were wet again. "He was charming."  
  
His name was David and his parents were faithful to the church of Alexander. It was there that he met Henry and they began a friendship, even if there was the small difference of three years between the two. She was about to join the army, and the death of his beloved, by the way, "friend" had made him quicken his pace.  
  
They discovered that they loved each other as they wandered through the hills and bathed in the woods lake after stealing some bottles of whiskey from David's father and getting drunk enough to be unaware of what they were saying. They ended up declaring each other and the rest is the kind of story I could never speak out loud knowing that I would never live something so pure and, as he called it, incredible.  
  
The fact is that David and I managed to get closer by the time he was still in Toamna, too depressed to leave the house more than once a week. He dreamed of being a renowned doctor, but depression drove him into a bottomless pit. Since he lived on the same street as myself, I could persuade my parents to let me visit him from time to time, even if I had to listen to the sermon about not succumbing to another man like little Cyprian. A pity I'd already did.  
  
He was a good boy, I must admit, and his friendship was so important to me that giving everything I have to heaven as thanks wouldn't be enough because he was the brother of Jamia, who at the time was only twelve years old and younger than me.  
  
David went to the army shortly after, and he was so skinny that I was impressed to know that it was accepted. Perhaps his height and face marked by pain helped him; I will never know That didn't stop me from continuing to talk to the tiny version of the one who would become the most important woman in my life a few years later - even more than my own wife - and soothing her when her brother's lack was so much that she appeared in the morning exhausted herself with so little age.  
  
He died in a civil war in the neighboring country.  
  
I always believed that he had given himself up to the enemy-either to save his comrades, or because he couldn't take it anymore, and it was the only way he could find. What I do know is that he never surpassed the death of his boy, the one he loved so deeply, but for such a short time that he had barely had the opportunity to make plans for a future together hidden from the nosy looks of the people around him.  
  
I also know that Jamia never dared touch his brother's name again. Not in her family.  
  
She looks at me with tired brown eyes. Sometimes I see traces of David in it, but they are rare. They are so different physically that I wonder if they are sibilings ... or so.  
  
Does she still think about what happened to him?  
  
"I'm going to give you a letter telling you my plan as soon as I see you, doing my best not to see Klaus." She picks up the subject after wiping her hands. I take the coffee mug to my lips, sipping the dark liquid slowly. Around me, I see piles and piles of boxes and suitcases. Little by little the furniture is gone and I know it is getting closer and closer.  
  
I put the untouched bread on my plate.  
  
"I really hope she agrees and does everything as you probably have already planned." Gods, what am I doing? I don't want her to go, even if it means her happiness. "The last thing we'll need during the escape is for Judith to have an outbreak."  
  
"Do you think she would?" My friend seems worried at the same moment. I nod.  
  
"She is a cunning but frightened young woman. What keeps her from despairing at the thought of being caught by her husband and caught up again?" Not that I'm discouraging her, but- "If you stop to think, it's likely you'll regret the middle of the road and everything goes down the drain. It would be good to prepare it first."  
"What you mean?" She frowns lightly, and her gaze gets lost in the vastness of the woods from the window.  
  
"When I was a teenager, my biggest fear was that my father would come home and get angry with me, so I avoided as much as possible repeating any word or movement that had resulted in the previous beating so that the likelihood of being caught again was less." Sigh. Sometimes I wonder if it was as wrong as Donald claimed to be. "Judith was beaten for leaving at night without the permission and company of her husband and locked for weeks without the right to comment, besides obviously suffering with the humiliation of being called a slut by the cycle in which lives." My words remind you of the memory of time ago, drawing a muffled noise. I remain impassive. "She probably has the trauma of it. Therefore, it is plausible that she don't take your plan to flee to the end because she will think that it will be discovered one more time and that the punishment will be worse."  
  
Nestor is silent and I can almost see the gears of her head working and the rhythm of her heartbeat diminishing as she absorbs my supposition. I tried not to be negative - as much as this characteristic is more than obvious of my person - and to offer my full support, however, I know the people and I know the world around them to the point of making sure that everything is not going as planned.  
  
I'm not at all sorry.  
  
"What do you think I should do, then? Who gave the idea of escape was you." She sounds disappointed and desperate. I lean on the table to hold her hand and feel mine instantly tight.  
  
"Find a way to meet her, even for just ten minutes - in the park, in front of her house, wherever Klaus cannot hear you - and tell her about the idea of running away together. Since they will be face to face, it will be easier to convince them." That reminds me Bert. "No passionate heart resists pleading eyes."  
  
"How can you be so sure?"  
  
"Robert."  
  
Jamia sighs for a long time and gets up, picking up the dishes from the table to put them in the sink before washing them. Leaning on the marble, her slender body sinking and becoming almost coarse by the way the muscles of her shoulders intend. They look like stones, not muscles.  
  
I'm sure nothing she says will change her mind - and I don't want to. It would be too selfish of me and in recent times, with the coexistence with Anthony and the collection of my friend, I have learned to be somewhat altruistic. I cannot think of myself, but at the same time I know I don't.  
  
I know it will hurt when she leaves, and I realize that I will not see her more every day, in her light clothes and long loose hair, in opposition to the tradition of the city in which women should keep them braided. I know it will hurt when my only consolation is her letters and not routine hugs that usually suffocate and almost break my hip. I know it will hurt when I find the studio empty in the morning, without her cheerful aura and its colorful paintings, and my only company is my paintings for hours on end. I know it will hurt when Saturdays become lonely and her house a complete stranger to me and the taste of iced tea look like bile.  
  
I know it will hurt when she leave.  
  
In fact, it already hurts.  
"I'll miss you." Before I even ponder, I let the words escape and hit me in the face.  
  
It was never an option for me to feel an extreme lack of someone. As much as I miss Lindsey's morning company and her fingers wandering the piano late at night when we couldn't sleep, it's not likes he's thinking of the emptiness her loss has left in my life all the time. As much as I miss Michael and I hid under my sheet with a lamp to read the science books our parents would not allow or we spent afternoons and evenings sitting on the grass admiring the sky, it's not as if we had desire to return to that time. As much as I miss Bert's hysterical laughs and the moments we spend together as lovers or friends, it's not as if he wants to recover everything we've lost.  
  
As much as I miss them all, I don't feel like crying about it.  
  
But I feel like crying for Jamia and I know that I will realize his absence every second of my days.  
  
My eyes are wet.  
  
"You do not want me to go." She laughs. Behind the laughter, I can feel the same pain as mine.  
  
"It's your happiness. I cannot stop you."  
  
Her body bumps into me seconds later. She is on my lap and grips my neck with such unusual desperation that it strikes me calmly. My hands tighten on her back, and I feel my cheeks warm slightly, as well as my eyelids. We tremble at the same time, and I know this will be one of our last contacts.  
  
Nestor walks away slightly, just to hold my face in her hands and kiss my forehead for a long time. I'm still trying to steady my breath and find myself weak, fallen. The impression I have is that I am naked before her, letting all the walls I have built around me collapse and show my true face.  
  
_Men do not cry_. My father had said so long.  
  
_Men do not cry_. Everyone said it for so long.  
  
_Men do not cry_. I believed that for so long.  
  
But men cry. And they cry a lot.  
  
"You'll be fine." She tries to be sure, looking into my eyes. Hers are red and your voice seems as weak as mine. "You'll be fine, Gerard."  
  
But I know I won't.  
  
Not totally.  
  
Not without my foundation.  
  
Not without my best friend.  
  
Not alone.  
  
"I promise you'll be fine."  
  
Not without her.

 


	17. For him.

I remember how I felt the mattress sink after seeing the door open and the beam of orange light waking me from a shallow sleep. The door latch sounded under the dogs' noises and short footsteps ran until tiny hands reached my bed but were never strong enough to pull it up so I needed to push the covers away and help his slim body to slip through my sheets.  
  
I remember how our makeshift tent always looked like a home after nightmares or beatings that would leave so many scars that we could scarcely tell later and how the tight embrace of that skinny little creature seemed to gather all the broken pieces of my heart.  
  
I remember how that night took my sleep.  
  
"Mikey, do you think I could be sick?" Every moment since he was born two months before the time, he forced me to get a strong, confident image, but I felt like I was falling apart little by little. What had happened to Henry was my doom, and I was terrified.  
  
"How so sick?" The green of his eyes was nothing but confusion. My first instinct was to shake my head and clasp my hands together on my knees. He hugged his own and the snow falling on the porch only seemed to make the weather worse.  
  
"Sick like ... Like Henry." Saying that out loud almost killed me. I felt like I was casting all the colors out of myself and turning me into a big gray blur. "Am I like him, so different?"  
  
"You're not sick, Gee." And as he crawled into my lap, almost imitating the puppies of his white cat, it made me succumb to a salt tear and squeeze it in my arms.  
  
Would they do the same thing to me they did to little Henry?  
  
"I don't know if you know, but you seem less cold when I remember that you're sheltering Alicia without demanding anything in return."  
  
_I don't know if you know, but you were less stupid when you were nine and were completely innocent and not that cynical._  
  
My brother shakes his hand as he crosses the entrance end and drops the raincoat on the jamb. I wonder what he's been doing during this time when I've hit his young bride and if he's really running after the loss, doing his best to set up his career as a musician as fast as possible. I cannot stand Simmons in my house any longer or...  
  
"She still cooks for me. It's a good coin." Michael smiles at me as he sits across the table, putting the dark binders on it. I shake my shoulders, feeling the look of Jamia in the room. "What you want?"  
  
"I don't know. Maybe talk." His smile fades, and he wrinkles his brows slightly as if he remembers something that had happened a long time ago. "It's been almost fifteen years since we've talked for over half an hour, since you-"  
  
"Ever since I decided I couldn't take you in on your nightmares and pamper you to the point of not being able to handle yourself?" I roll my eyes. My heart is out of order. Why am I so nervous if it's just my little brother? I should be calm. "You had to grow up, Michael. At your age I had to turn myself. See what advantage you received for being the youngest!" I open my arms as if being neglected by someone is something wonderful.  
  
"It doesn't count as an advantage if you abandoned me before you even taught me how to fight against monsters." He doesn't know the story. He doesn't know.  
  
He doesn't know what I miss.  
  
"Why did you lock the bedroom door?"  
  
"Because..."  
  
"Hello!" That voice screams right behind my brother and I have to lean my body to the side to see the little creature briefly embracing Nestor. He notices me automatically, but shifts from the hall toward the other as if he knew exactly that I am absurdly busy. Thank you in silence.  
  
Michael doesn't dare look away.  
  
"Ask your dear father." I'm trying to be firm. I swear I'm trying. "He'll know how to respond."  
  
"But I'm asking you!" My brother raises his voice a little. I hate that he raise his voices to me and I try to relieve myself not to send him to hell. "Why?"  
  
"Because you either went back to your own room or became friends with a belt." I rolled my eyes perhaps for the thousandth time that day. I only remember having such a somewhat open conversation with this boy when I was eighteen and I was afraid to go to the army and come to desperately for help. He is silent.  
  
"As well?"  
  
"You don"t want me to say it." My hands shake. I squeeze them on the edge of the chair, trying to make them stop.  
  
"Yeah, I just..."  
  
"Michael"! I stop on the last syllable, feeling my ribs hurt, locking automatically. Close my eyes. I cannot face him. I cannot face it or it will hurt more than it should.  
  
I feel that I am too sensitive.  
  
"You left me, Jared." I hear his footsteps retreat and then the doors hatch, as if he's closing us in a box to keep it a secret. I can feel the look of Jamia burning on the other side of the property. "You were my best friend!"  
  
He claps his hands on the table.  
  
Everything trembles.  
  
"The least you owe me is a motive!" Michael is screaming. His words strike me full, making me look at him with caution, too frightened, afraid of hurting him once more. Did Donald manipulate him into coming to take things from me?  
  
But his eyes are swollen and he doesn't pretend so well.  
  
"Why do you want to know? It won't change anything." The words are drawn and trembling. It's as if the conversation I had with Nestor yesterday, Anthony's quick rapprochement and the memories I've been having lately resolved to make a small army to attack my sanity and leave me on the brink of an abyss.  
  
"Because it still disturbs me."  
  
"That was fifteen years ago!" My voice goes up two octaves. I feel the air I lack. "We're adults now! You shouldn't even remember all that!"  
  
"Well, I remember."  
  
How long didn't I want to have this conversation with him, but I was too afraid of my father for that, knowing that if Mikey was suspicious of anything, would we both get a good spanking?  
  
We should never have grown up.  
  
"How many times have you gotten hit in life?" My question is simple, mixed in a voice too controlled for my cold sweaty hands. He pulls his thick eyebrows together and shrugs.  
  
"None, as I recall..."  
  
"I don't remember either." Now I'm marching to the doors, slipping out of his confused look and trying to ignore the urge I'm pulling him into a hug, as tight as what I gave two years ago, congratulating him on an engagement while the lives of my wife and my son were carried away. I open one of them, showing the passage from the hallway to the entrance. "You should thank me for that, and don't get me down at work."  
  
I can almost see a light bulb above his head.  
  
"You wanted to protect me from our father's violence and lack of understanding." He murmurs in astonishment. I resist the temptation to clap and give him a genius prize of the century. Being ironic at the moment won't help much.  
  
"Like I'm doing to Alicia." I open the door. He puts the documents together and holds them to his chest. "Now get out, Michael. I need to work, and you, too."  
  
"Gerard..."  
  
"Go. See you at lunch tomorrow."  
  
My brother walks past me in slow steps, pausing for what seemed like an eternity at my side to face me with his wide, almost childish eyes, and comes out in complete silence as if he were afraid of me. And for a second maybe.  
  
I close my eyes and sigh.  
  
I need to be alone as fast as I can.  
  
"Gerard?"  
  
I don't need any more.  
  
Frankie walks hesitantly toward me, nudging his fingertips in agony, a custom I have observed in the last few days, and the light flushes covered by something that seems to me to be worry or even fright. I'm sure my almost scream was heard by him and Jamia and I lean against the wall, embarrassed. TOur faces are almost close. He is so shor that even in this position he must raise his head to face me correctly.  
  
I know I don't mind being in his company even though everything in me begs for a moment with just a cup of coffee and the warmth of my sheets.  
  
This boy weakens me.  
  
"My mother sent you candy that you might like." His voice is sweet, understanding, and intoxicating, completely different from the one I'm used to hearing. I could walk into an eternal waltz with it. "They are raspberry, blackberry, and cherry, and Jamia offered the opening of a wine."  
  
"I like red fruit." I smile. He smells like such. Sometimes I wonder if he knows the effect he has on me whenever he appears, even though he has never shown anything.  
  
My boy returns the smile.  
  
"But you're too young to drink wine, Anthony. Your parents would kill me." I must remind myself more often that this boy has just turned eighteen, and has only fled from adolescence. He is a young adult; however, not mature.  
  
"It's just wine." He winks and heads toward the main hall, humming. I follow him like a dog after his master. "It's not like I'm taking poison. A cup will not kill me."  
  
"Could."  
  
"But won't!" Venus shouts and raises an arm, his fist clenched as if pumping the air, in a greeting unknown to me. "Bad people are slow to die."  
  
Nestor compresses his lips by handing a glass in half to the boy, who carries it to his nose and smacks of the drink. He writhes his face in a grimace, but swallows the liquid slowly. My hands are so shaken that I do not do it by turning mine completely, feeling the alcohol coming down burning like never before. It's rare to feel uncomfortable with any drink capable of driving me out of consciousness, and the heat in my throat warns me somewhat.  
  
My stomach gives a painful bump, but it is not for the wine.  
  
Jamia lets out a chuckle as Frank rests his glass back on the table, silently screaming that he doesn't want another drop of it. I wipe my lips, but this isn't a smile.  
  
My boy turns to me with circular eyes excited.  
  
And then I'm weak again.


	18. Men love men and women

I still cannot understand my feelings about Frank.  
  
At first it was about his beauty and the mad desire to eternalize it in my paintings; as everything in his person seems to be meticulously drawn by a deity, however much I believe in none; how his look is so virginal and his smile so pleasant; how could I admire him because I knew that I wouldn't regret it.  
  
Then I fell. I fell headlong into his meekness, fell for his laughter, fell for his unique way of acting. It was - and still is - a pleasure to watch his behavior, even if I had always known how destabilized that could leave me, because when he smiled I would shatter. When I saw him, it would light up. Gradually he became that unstable and unique part of me that forced my heart to a desperate run through the desert every time his voice reached my ears or his figure appeared in my field of vision. Soon, I was hopelessly in love with every little detail that made up his being.  
  
In fact, I'm still falling in love with him. Increasingly.  
  
And now what calms me is his embrace.  
  
I cannot stress his smallness, how he needs to stay on the tips of his toes, and stretch out to rest his head on my shoulder. His arms tighten at the lungs; and the heat runs down my body slowly, scorching every bone, shivering every hair. My hand runs through her hair in continuous movements while the other tightens her hip, keeping us close to the point where nothing can get between our chests. His touch accelerates and slows my heart at the same time, like a cold flame, disarming me and leaving me at the mercy of all the dangers that love for him can offer. I can not even look away from her clear face to find Jamia's irritated expression. His features are so soft that I'm almost touching them. Getting rid of him seems like an impossible mission.  
  
Anthony groans something unintelligible and gives back. The heat of her skin unties mine and I feel the cold breeze of late afternoon hits me twice as intensely as she walks away, swinging from side to side to the sound of the music playing on the phonograph. It looks like a little bird that is relearning to fly after a long season in a tiny cage.  
  
I leave immediately, and I follow my friend upstairs, listening to the repeated beats of his heavy, pointed shoes on the wooden steps and knowing that I risk being drawn and buried deep in his backyard. She leans over the ledge of the open window and carries a cigarette I had not noticed until her trembling lips, swallowing heavily. She only smokes when she is anxious. How long have not I seen her do that? If I'm not mistaken, months.  
  
"Why are you giving yourself up like this, Gerard? It's getting so obvious..." The smoke escapes from her mouth in a breath and hits my face. I suffer the same way I did ten years ago for the first time. "What if he's not trustworthy? What if he's spying on you to spread your practices around town and destroy you life?"  
  
"I don't care."  
  
And I don't. I'd never do.  
  
How long had I given up countless dreams and desires that consumed me more and more each day because I was too frightened by the risks I would take to follow them? And how many times have I not suppressed feelings because I was too preoccupied with the judgment of others to let them pierce the walls that I built? I just cannot do this with Venus.  
  
Jamia tosses the tube away and growls unsatisfied. Does she think I'm too immature and inconsequential to act with concern for my feelings for young Anthony? Or is she afraid to give me completely and absolutely to the boy, considering that he may not love me as I love him?  
  
I swallow hard and feel the taste of bile in my mouth.  
  
"Don't do anything foolish." Nestor grunts and hits my chest with the least amount of force, disappearing through the front door after running there. My hands are shaking.

The main hall suddenly cools abruptly. The fireplace, however, is burning the wood we gathered yesterday afternoon and the lower windows are tightly closed. Frank is leaning against one of them, his legs clasped to his chest, and the eyes set in the flower-arch at the end of the street. He turns to me as I reach for the doors that separate the room from the corridor, curling up against the curtain as soon as it meets my eyes. I know instantly that he has heard a part of my conversation with Jamia, but he does'ot say anything and look out the window again.  
  
"Frank..."  
  
"She thinks I'm a nuisance, doesn't she?" Venus whispers in a trembling voice. My first instinct is to sit in front of him and put my hand on his knee like the night of dinner at his house. He squeezes mine under his.Is he hurt by what he'is supposed to have heard?  
  
"Yes, she does." Of course, denying and saying that he heard wrong will only make things worse. Maybe he thinks I'm covering the rudeness of my friend with hot cloths and that I'm a complete liar. "Jamia and I have known each other for almost sixteen years, and all this time I have only let two other people enter so quickly and deeply into my life; both disappearing soon after. I think she's scared ... Or even jealous." I try to give him confidence by moving my thumb in circumference through his palm and maintaining that simpler yet strong contact of our eyes. 

"Am I relevant in your life, Gerard?" My boy hardly allows me to finish the sentence, trampling my last words and spreading his too high. My eyes widened at once, too astonished to answer now. How does he have the ability to question its importance to me only for something that Nestor said? How can he ?!  
  
"Yes, Anthony, you are." I'm being... Suit? Rarest are the times I say so, so soft to someone of my size, almost completely bent, wanting to be as close as possible to him and to be as convincing as possible. His lips are so close I can hardly resist the temptation to possess them with mine.  
  
Venus shuffles and squeezes my hand again on his knee.  
  
He is insecure. I barely remembered the conversation we had in that office when he told me with tears that he knew how "unbearable" it could be to those who knew him, and how much he seemed worried that I might tire of his company and abandon him as I did with my brother, (even though the circumstances are different) after we have approached in some way.  
  
I kiss his face carefully. I feel his eyes close against my cheek and I almost smile. I touched him. I touched him with my lips and he tastes like cocoa.  
  
I walk away before I even digest and take full advantage of our closeness, moving to the other side of the room in quick strides, closing my hands in fist to stop them from shaking so much. I know he's watching me, and for this, I feel my heart slam into my chest. The impression I have is that my organ wishes to escape by the intensity with which it beats.

I hear nothing, not even his breathing. I want to turn around and see what he's doing; if it looks the same distant look from before, peering through the window, but without actually seeing what is out there; if he continue to watch me with caution or if he just closed your eyes; however, I restrain myself and stand facing the table covered with paints and small colored fabrics by Jamia.  
  
I turned my body toward him after a sigh. My boy is suddenly only a few inches away.  
  
I'm cold.  
  
"Gerard..." Venus hugs his own body. He is so meek in his own way, whispering as if he did not scream most of the time, his lips moving with slowness and hesitation. I clench my fingers on the edge of the table. "You like... Men, don't you?"  
  
If I said I'm not shaking like a bastard, I'd be lying. I feel my insides clench under his almost icy gaze, which examines every minute detail, and I can almost see my emotions hiding in a dark room to give way to the fear that grows more each passing second. I know my gears get stuck.  
  
I'm scared. So terrified that I suffocate.  
  
"So you do..." He deduces at the sound of my silence. It shows no embarrassment, just ... curiosity. Did he notice that the way I look at him goes far beyond anything merely brotherly? Has he realized my love and isn't made to return it?  
  
"I..." My voice coils into the lump in my throat and everything that comes out is a dead noise. "I... I didn't..." I wanted Jamia to be here. Oh, how I wanted to.  
  
"Don't act like I'm an idiot." He rolls his eyes insolently and crosses his arms. The purity that pervades his face drastically changes to a blackened and angry expression. Was it all a staging? "The first time we talked, I told you I'm not a fool for being a teenager. You like men as you should like women." He accuses me. Tears sprout in my waterline.  
  
I'm ruined.  
  
"Anthony, I... Please, I..."  
  
He pushes me against the table hard, knocking over almost everything in it, hurting my already hard backs at the level of my lower back. I don't need to lift my blouse to know what purple marks begin to form where it squeezed.  
  
Venus stands between my knees and closes his fingers around my collar, almost choking me. Flame spreads through your eyes.  
  
I'm dead.  
  
"We both know you want them, so you want me." He scolds. (Good power of observation). Teeth crinkled, confers. Maxilar locked, confers. Narrow eyes, confers. I'll be killed by the hands of a teenager. A great story to tell in Hell.  
  
He leans over me, but I stare back and wince.  
  
"Anthony, what are you doing?" My voice finally escapes. It is trembling, it fails.  
  
"Shut up."  
  
I feel his teeth catch my lower lip and pull him. His hands slide down my chest until they reach my hips and they press the rather meager steaks there. I press my fingers into the wood so hard that the joints must be whitish. Why am I not enjoying this touch, if it was all I wanted for so long?  
  
Because it's forced, desperate.  
  
I move away.  
  
Venus opens her eyes, and I could decipher which feeling covers them if he did not turn his face and use his hair as a curtain to hide it. I want to kiss him so much, I want to taste him so much, but I cannot.  
  
He is silent.  
  
"Gerard..." he moans, stepping back, though his hands remain in the same place. My heart is so out of control.  
  
"We can't..."

"Yes we can!" He screams. His fingers press me harder. "Gerard..." He is mewing, tilting his head to the side and drawing his face close in an attempt to create some eye contact. "If you know that you lust for me... and that I covet you... Why are you running away?"  
  
"Because I can't!"   
  
I put my hand on my chest, panting. All I wanted was to touch him and possess him. I should have pulled him against me properly and tied me to him until the air became scarce and we had to pull away to get him back before we docked again - though the dread has scaled my throat and is now suffocating me.  
  
Anthony walks roughly away and sniffs.  
  
Is he crying?  
  
"Don't tell my father, okay? He would kill me." He cries softly and runs his hands over his face. "I'm leaving." I watch him pacing up and down, gathering his things and dressing up erroneously, his cloaked collar and coat the other way around. I don't want him to go, for if I do, I will become a complete disaster. "Goodbye, Amell."  
  
Cannot let him go.  
  
Frank steps hard toward the entrance. I can hear - and feel - his weeping from here as I follow him silently. Did young Bert feel that way, rejected and hurt, when I didn't show reciprocity for his love? Is my boy in love with me?  
  
I knock on the door and keep it from opening when he opens it. I can even hear the latch break.  
  
Anthony instantly freezes.  
  
My hands grasp the waist and gently touch the wood. The bag in his arms disturbs me somewhat, however, I can lean on him and lean our foreheads. He had scared me, the colorful flares bulging and still wet.  
  
I take his mouth with mine. Just ... I decide not to think.  
  
I can hear the mute thud of the bag clacking against the floor and the sound of the dishes that it brought in a thousand pieces upon reaching it. He cuddles my neck lovingly, seeking for support, and climbs on my feet. My fingers press into his skin and force him up, slamming him against me without thinking twice.  
  
I'm drowning in an ocean of love and foolishness.  
  
Venus tastes like strawberry. He shivers under me, leaning against the wall, squeezing my neck so hard it could break him and rub his feet against my calves. My hand slides down to his face, and there it is, brushing away the tears he spilled seconds ago. I do not dare to nibble on him, possessing his lips completely, taking full advantage of its sweet taste.  
  
He moans against my mouth and sucks my tongue one last time, freeing us. We are trembling, breathless, and crimson. My boy seems somewhat impressed, pulling my wires at the nape of the neck and wide-eyed, alert.  
  
Frank has the most beautiful flames in existence.  
  
I let him get back on the ground and get rid of me. I didn't realize that I was hesitant, barely keeping myself on my feet as I dragged my thumb down his lips and walked away from him, seeking my overcoat, even though I knew I could not dress him in control. I find him still astonished, suffocated.  
  
Deep breath. I want to kiss him again.  
  
I really want to kiss him.  
  
"I'll take you home."  
  
"You do not have to. I don't want to go." His cheeks turn a strong red and he holds a thick lock of dark hair behind his ear. Makes me want you even more.  
  
"So what do you want?"  
  
"You kiss me more ..." I smiled, raising my eyes. "A lot more."  
  
I don't mind.  
  
Anthony sighs against my lips and pulls the collar of my blouse, waiting for the touch. And I do, squeezing him in my arms as he leads us into the main hall, too busy trying every corner of his mouth to notice that we are already leaning against the table where he attacked me.  
  
Are these his first kisses?  
  
We could remain so for eternity that I would not tire.

**Ω**

Jamia didn't come back yet, and as much as I wanted to - and should be worried, I cannot do it. Not with Anthony sitting on my right leg, with his head resting on my shoulder and his hand wandering my chest and neck; let alone with his lips playing on my chin and his voice humming some music that I don't know, but that makes me drunk to the point of preventing me from continuing to paint whatever started at the beginning of the day.  
  
The last few hours have passed very quickly. Through the window, I can already see the pearly moon shining in the darkness that covers Toamna and the streets gradually emptying. I must admit that I have always known how needy my boy is, but I must also admit that I was impressed - and even a little embarrassed, considering that I had never been in a similar situation - when he decided, once and for all, that he wouldn't let me work - I must remember that I am not complaining - and curled up to me as if our relationship had decades.  
  
But there is no relationship.  
  
"I have to go home in a few minutes." He looks dejected, raising his knees until his bare feet reach my thighs. "But I think we should talk about it. We're still talking about a Christian country."  
  
"We can talk tomorrow when it's afternoon." I suggest. What if he just want a relationship just like I had with Franz? I would be destroyed. "Let's face it, it's not going to be easy with your nerves to decide what to do. Sometimes think, Anthony, it's worth it."  
  
"Respect me!" He punches my shoulder, jumping out of my body behind his shoes. I miss his heat instantly. "And respecting me means you're taking me home."  
  
"Respecting it means being a tiny chariot version?" I need to make a mental note not to try to tell jokes; I must be horrible at it.  
  
He widens his smile.  
  
"It means you care enough to leave me where I must go so that I am whole tomorrow for you." Venus explains almost didactically. "Don't you want me, Gerard?"  
  
He's teasing me one more time.  
  
I almost lose control.  
  
"Let's go." He shakes his arms.  
  
My boy bends down to pick up the bag and looks inside curiously, muttering about two broken saucers and needing to hide them from Linda. Meanwhile, I cover his shoulders with the coat he wore and hugged him there, trailing his nose down his cheek just to inhale his scent. It's really cocoa.  
  
Anthony turns and kisses me.  
  
I don't want to leave him for the thousandth time a day. I have been in love for so long, portraying him in my bedside designs and making him the protagonist of my most secret utopias that I have no idea how to act. I can scarcely digest the fact that he is here, leaning against me, his hand sliding up to the nape of my neck and steadying himself there to sink into my mouth. Anthony seemed such a distant dream, from the kind that graces a book of fairy tales and not reality, that kissing him is ... wonderfully unbelievable.  
  
My fingers prick his hips and lift him up again, so that he can snuggle to my chest and let me touch him as he sees fit. I'm euphoric; to kiss him is to drown in an ocean of completely new sensations, which pull me deeper and deeper into the depths of the unknown. He pulls out all my air and leads me to death.  
  
Venus grunts against my lips and finally breaks our contact. Our withdrawal means that I need to take you home, even though I don't plan to do it at all, because I know we will walk side by side for two kilometers and I can't kiss him at no time. I know I hate strawberries, but I also know that I'm addicted to their taste.  
  
We hurried down the street, slipping away from the strong center lights. My boy is dangerously close, reciting words unintelligible to me for himself. I'm about to pull him by the waist and buck him with him in the gloom that covers the hills when we hit Woodley Street and see his house in the distance. Only one room is lit.  
We barely reach the end of the garden and the door is opened by my ex-teacher who smiles and hugs his son. Venus leaned against him and caressed me.  
  
He bites his lips.  
  
"I think I should thank you once again for bringing him home safely." Frank Iero smiles and kisses the boy's head. I have no desire to leave him there. His home should be with me.  
  
"I told you it's the way; and let's face it, Anthony is not very brave." He blushes at my words, but he smiles gently. His father nods.  
  
"Anyway, it reassures me that he'll come and leave him every day. I don't know what my family and I would do if something happened to my son." My eyes do not dare to deviate from the boy's and I turn away.  
  
"I'll see you tomorrow, Frank."  
  
"I'll see you tomorrow, Gerard."

  
  



	19. Consequence

I wonder if it was real.

I had a night of sleep so terrible that I do not even remember if I dozed at some point, too busy with a suffocating excitement to be able to settle down. Anthony awakened in my mind euphoric thoughts and in my body sensations that had been dormant for a long time, filling me with the most varied fantasies and preventing me from reasoning properly until I was in the cold water.

I still felt - not that I don't now - its taste in my mouth, while all our acts began to pass like blurs before my eyes, far too distant to appear true and covering my excitement of continuing from where we stopped with a black veil that made me wonder if our kisses were just another dream in which he is mine.

It's real. It has to be.

It's too early, so it doesn't surprise me that Jamia isn't waiting for me on the bridge. The mood between us has been so strange that I begin to feel my heart break more and more and the feeling that I will definitely lose it will suffocate me. She's my best friend, but it's like we're slowly deteriorating and losing everything we've been.

When I get to the studio, she's leaning against the wall smoking again. I know she noticed me, though, I also know she's ignoring me. It's so unreasonable not to greet us that I feel that some part of my morning is missing and my good humor went to the marsh.

Sigh. At the same time I want to talk, I don't want to.

Proud.

"You know, Gerard, you've been strutting about this kid." She begins. Unknown relief surrounds me and holds me tightly. "Sounds like a silly teenager."

"I'm not stupid, Jamia."

"Then why are you in love with him?" The last word is said in a tone of disgust. A curse gets stuck in my throat. "You barely knew him, you hardly know him! You're a twenty-nine-year-old man who should be fully aware that falling in love with an eighteen-year-old is ridiculous!" She screams. "What can he offer you? Sex? Is that what you feel like? Fuck him until he can not take it anymore and feel superior for being with a boy as handsome and moneyed as he?"

I never thought I'd hear something like that come out of her mouth.

The fact is that her words strike me in full. I know exactly what I feel and it isn't just about sexual desire. Does she really believe that all I want is to use him as a cheap prostitute, taking advantage of his innocence, when in fact all I think is his smile and not his naked body? After all I've spent all these years and every time I have not fallen in love, she still has the courage to say that my feeling is... False?

'You are crazy."

"Crazy? Crazy? He is eighteen fucking years and no maturity to endure a suffering person like you! And you know what's going to happen? You will hurt yourself, your heart will break once more and you will never get up again, because you will be disappointed, because it isn't your idealization!"

"Jamia, why do you-"

"Do you know what happened the last time a man in my life fell in love with a boy, Gerard? Do you know?"

_David._

"That's right! He killed himself!"

There's a reason why Jamia Nestor is my best friend. And it's obvious.

She takes care of me. She cares.

"I cannot lose you more than I already will." My body stiffens. "If you die, I'll run out of soil." It makes me want to hold her, but I cannot.

"I'm not David, Jamia." The mention of the name makes her close her eyes. "And Anthony is not Henry." My voice is low. I clasp my hands in my suitcase. "We're both adults and you know I won't be foolish like that."

My friend nods and lets her arms fall around me. I keep squeezing her, allowing all sorrows to escape through my fingers and soothe my chest. I cannot allow us to lose each other. She's so important in my life that...

"I promise I will not tell you anything about him again."

"My sanity thanks."

 

There are three knocks on the door. Nestor's mouth twitches and walks toward the main hall, mumbling something about getting ready soon to open. My hair bristles and my reflection is reflected in the window in front of me. I'm turning red.

I get a pair of huge almond-shaped eyes that stare at me with a smile that does not reach his lips. Frank Anthony hands me a big box and rests his coat on the jamb, not really looking at me, pulling off his suspenders, and finally just dressed in white, almost like a little angel. My throat is dry. He... Did he forget what we did yesterday?

"Frank, you-"

"Put this box in the living room and find me there." He interrupts me, sliding away and snapping his fingers above his head. "We need to talk seriously."

I do as he say, but I feel my head spinning. Jamia knit her eyebrows questioningly. With a gesture, quiet it and drop the package carefully on the table. I sigh, twisting my heels and marching toward the stairs.

At each step, I feel my heart beating slower. It's like a road to hell and I'm just terrified. What if he simply looks at me and says that none of our touches of yore ever meant anything? What if I was just an object of a fairly quick and irrelevant experience in his life? What if he was just using me to taste a different taste?

But he ... He looks like an angel.

Venus turns his body to me as soon as he hears me on the first floor. He is leaning against the parapet of the porch with his arms folded and his hair thrown over his shoulders. The sun shines brightly behind his figure. And it's as if all his beams hit me and blinded me for a brief moment as I dragged myself toward my boy.

His hands roam around my shoulders until they tangled in my hair and pull them with a bit of strength as he stretches to reach my lips. So surprised, I take a few seconds to realize what happens and bind it with affection, making it all the point to squeeze it and let it unite our bodies. I was so terrified that he didn't like what happened yesterday that I barely realized that Jamia was downstairs and that Venus probably doesn't want to show her what we're doing.

Suddenly my heart heats up and everything feels like spring.

"I missed you." He whispers against my lips, pulling away from me just to breathe. His words pierced my body like an electric current, lighting my bones and opening my eyes. I rub my nose on one of his cheeks.

My boy gives a hoarse laugh.

"I thought you forgot." Impulsively, I let him know what I imagined as he walked through the door. Venus opens a drunken smile.

"I would never forget. You know this."

"Why not?"

"Because it's you."

I tremble to receive him in my arms again, doing my best to keep myself properly on my feet so I don't realize the happiness that dances in my stomach. I spent the last night so busy worrying about what his kisses gave me that I barely pondered what he felt.

I want to know what I have of interesting to make him think so and how long have he done, since I cannot find reason for someone as charming as he wishes to be with me as he is now. Obviously I expected with all the patience and positivity that I treasured as the price, but falling in love with me is something so unimaginable that I am impressed. He may have all for his beauty and meiguice, but he chose me.

He chose me.

Venus pulls me closer and makes me rest my hand on the balcony railing, squeezing the small body in mine and pulling my air out completely. He is sly, biting my lower lip to the point of making him bleed and escaping to my chin, the unshaven beard filling me with shivers that could never contain. I can not go on with this. I'm not psychologically ready.

"Why did you come earlier?" I'm hesitant, my tone wavering and trembling visibly. He has no right to leave me like this. "It's not eight o'clock yet."

"I couldn't sleep tonight." He explains quickly, not allowing me to finish. His hands roamed my chest. "Then I didn't want to wait to see you." He looks up at my face. I massage the apples of his face.

"I never want to wait to see you."

Venus smiled sheepishly, caressing his cheeks. He turns his back on me and leans over the parapet to watch the empty street below. His shoulders are curved, almost tense, and everything about him seems to shrink immediately. From here he no longer looks like a "young adult" but the boy who snatches me.

My arms wrap around him and tighten. His back relax against my chest and he snuggles all over me, squeezing my hands that hug him with his own and tipping his head up toward me. He wants me to kiss and I do it, even if it's just a light suction of our lips, in a touch so simple and sweet that I can hear music around me.

I can not taste it with such devotion.

"When did you realize that...  you like me?" I question, hesitant. We've been in this silence for so many minutes that I've been bothered. Frank chuckles.

"You look insecure, Gerard Way." For a brief moment, look at me amusingly. "A man as full of property, as self-sufficient and as mature as you are concerned with the feelings of an eighteen-year-old boy? This one is new." He smiles.

"If you didn't play games, I wouldn't be."

"Ah, dear, there is so much." I can feel him shiver as I have my face close to his enough to catch every reaction. "We both know my feelings for you came a long time before we met."

"So you're telling me this started before we even talked for the first time?" I blow against his face. Venus lets out a satisfied grunt as my fingers sink into the thick flesh of her hips, caressing it under the blouse and letting me get drunk by his scent.

"Yes, that's what I'm saying." A timid laugh fills the air and flies in the wind. My heart is so out of place that I'm afraid you'll notice. "You know, Gerard, it's not so understandable to admire someone whom you've only heard of throughout your life, especially if that someone is a rising painter. People ask you why not venerate the Shelley or Robert Louis Stevenson or any musician scattered around the world and you don't have an answer."

"You're basically saying that you fell for the artist and not for me."

"I'm saying I fell for the soul that the man behind the artist was trying to hide." His light flickers turn to me. He has such a soft expression that I let myself spread and relax against his back. "Falling in love with you is not easy, Way, but every time my father tells you about the strange young man who was ashamed of his talent and art he saw in the galleries and houses of acquaintances, I felt more and more knowing, of all that black and navy blue and feeling close to you was just a consequence."

"That means..."

"That I was falling in love with you before I even knew who you really were." I could have smiled, but I'm stunned, too cold for that. In fact, I can die of tachycardia now. "I can list all the paintings and their meanings I have seen, but your face was a shadow to me. And one day you were looking at me in that restaurant and..."

"So your eyes were never innocent."

"When it came to you, no." My boy almost smiled, taking on a distant expression. "And now here we are."

"Does it feel the same?" I'm suffocating, trying to digest his words fast enough to think and speak correctly. To know that he wanted me before is... Unbelievable.

"A little." He turns to me and wraps his arms around my neck. "It's better, closer. You have "smell" of home and spring like cloves, cinnamon and orange."

"Your definition of home is great." The point is, I have no idea what to say. Frank Iero  is looking at me and basically declaring himself. Every time I imagined us together, the love story would come from me. "Is cloves, cinnamon and orange good?"

"It's wonderful."

Anthony takes my mouth again. My body almost collapses as it has clung to me once more, so calmer, sweet, and tender that I feel as if I kissed its purest part. A different taste has my mouth, but not bad. It is a mixture of sensations that reminds the arrival of the holidays and the beginning of summer in a same period.

I think I just needed that. My negativity about other people's feelings for me is such that I've been wondering if I'm just not an experiment for a huge theory. Having him here, touching me with every devotion I can catch, is probably the best answer I could have.

Venus pulls in again and pulls away, her reddened lips clenched in a rigid line.

"Boys, don't you think..." Jamia's voice runs through the room and dies as she gets close enough to know she's upstairs.

The boy and I slid away from each other under her gaze.

My boy must be as cold and pale as I am.

"It's time for lunch, and today's Sugg's salad day." Nestor continued, without changing the expression on his face. Somehow, that relieves me. "It's on me. We can eat dessert too."

Then Frankie smiles.

And Jamia smiles.

And I smile too.


	20. Two

Anthony kisses my face and whispers a brief farewell before he walks through the door and across the street. Apparently, Frank had asked him to return earlier, even before the sun went down, for some reason he didn't even know. It's still three o'clock in the afternoon and I can already feel the coldness of the night surrounding me because of his absence. This place looks so gloomy without him.

  
I walk back into the main hall in silence, dragging myself down the corridor until it reaches my seat, dropping on it like a dead weight. A crease of curiosity comes up on Jamias forehead as she raises her eyebrows at me. My biggest problem is that I feel disgusted every time my boy leaves.

  
"You have a day to finish this damn picture, Gerard Way." My friend catches my eye with a magically flying pencil that strikes my chest. "Enjoy that Iero is not here to do any good."  She smiles. "I know you've been distracted, so running during his absence sounds like a good idea."

  
"May be." A trembling sigh escapes through my lips like a winter blast. Of course I should talk to her about what she saw, about what's going on between Venus and me, even though she didn't say a word about it. After all, she's still my best friend. "Jamia, I want you to know that Anthony and I are ..."

  
"Together?" She interrupts me gently. I think she's trying to act like me when she told me about Judith and seemed to pray for me to support her. It seems like a century has passed since that afternoon. "I must tell you to be careful about this relationship and take it with maturity."

  
"I have the maturity to carry a careful relationship."

  
"Yes, dear, you have." She shakes her head, but it's not like she really agrees with my words. "Yet you're completely unprepared to deal with the whirlwind of feelings that this boy causes in you and to follow with them without losing the line or becoming numb. Falling in love is like a shock: quick, intense, and if you're lucky you'll leave it alive. True love is something completely different."

  
"Do you think I can handle it?"

  
"Just don't give a step bigger than your feet."

  
I just did.

  
Nestor turns the bench and returns to focus on his painting. I look at mine, so late, so incomplete. Maybe he really distracted me and kept me from continuing my work, keeping me busy enough to forget completely that I have commitments and that I must fulfill them. Or maybe it is more interesting and enjoyable than to have that money and strangers falsely touched by my side.

  
The woman smiles at me in greeting, her light hair cascading around her face and her dark eyes probing. It is so strange not to feel the cheerful presence of my boy behind me, to chatter about anything or to fill me with questions without meaning, or to write one more of his poems in an almost funereal silence; and that makes the day gray, depressing. It is evident that I am already affected by your lack.

  
I sigh. Jamia looks at me with questioning air, moving away from his screen ready to position himself in front of me and holding my face between his dirty hands of lilac ink. I can not look at her. I can not.

  
"Hey, what's happenning?" The worst part is that I have no idea why I'm so discouraged and blown up with a headache. As much as having migraine is already something everyday for me, at the moment I feel it is much worse than commonly.

  
"Nothing." Stammering. "I just want to go home."

  
"Then let's go home. We have a lot to talk."

 

The night comes during our walk and with it the freezing weather. My friend cringes against me as we cross the garden of the huge estate, mumbling something about brewing coffee and toast. I have never seen this place so empty, the boxes once scattered around the room are stacked in a corner and most of the furniture has already been transported to the capital.

  
The environment cools as soon as I set foot in the kitchen.

  
"What did you want to talk to me about?" She stops at the instant my voice echoes. Stiffened shoulders and gaze. I shrink back against the backrest. "Jamia..."

  
"Judith and I talked yesterday. She agreed to run away with me to the capital. Not that we didn't know what would happen, but... " Look out the window. "Deep down I feel afraid."

  
"It's the first gigantic change of your life, Jamia. No wonder it's fearful."

  
"I've always wanted to have a life with her since I met her during my teens. When you gave the idea of running away, everything was fine, the plans ran slowly and freely, and I could sleep at night." I'll settle in the chair. I know a bucket of cold water will fall on my head. "And then I hear that she accepts, that she wants to run away with me..."

  
"You've spent so much time fantasizing that when it's true, your heart seems to be coming out of your mouth. You'll be scared until..."

  
"Until..." I sigh. I only swallowed being married to a woman two months after leaving college when I let her touch me and gave herself to me completely - and I still needed a few hours to digest everything correctly.

  
"How long will you stay?"

  
"Two weeks."

  
"It'll be over in two weeks."

  
Nestor snuggles under my arm, pulling it by her shoulders and squeezing my hand in hers. We have been as sentimental as two teens at the onset of puberty in the last few days that this need to embrace each other and vent as if it were the end of the line has taken my whole heart. I want to support her and say that it will be okay to familiarize herself with a routine with Judith, but it's as if all words of comfort escape my mouth when I open it.

  
I still don't want her to go. I don't want to have to talk through letters, much less wait for one of us to decide to visit the other's city to see her and listen to her until I feel my ears ache. I don't want to spend my days without her presence even with Anthony's next to me. I don't want to, I cannot to.

  
I don't want us to face this world without the other.

  
I squeeze it harder than I should have. My eyes are wet and I can not let you see.

  
"You're not ready for that, are you?" She whispers slowly.

  
"You're my best friend, Jamia."

  
"So that means even far, I'll be with you."

  
I just want this stifling sensation to end.

  
"Don't suffer in anticipation, Gerard. We are... We are siblings."

  
"More than our own brothers?" Although the comparison isn't very fair.

  
"Yes, dear, yes."

  
She's staring at me with sad eyes. We've been holding hands for fifteen years and holding each other, and then she's about to leave like a lost little girl ready to be found - and maybe she owes it more than any other.

  
Judith loves her. Judith will take care of her and I need to calm down.

  
"I'm going back to visit you. It's a promise."

  
"Thank you for your consideration."

  
I look at the clock and notice that it's already late and that the walk is long - yet I have no desire to release it. I don't feel like I'm making drama, hysteria about her going, even though my only desire is to ask her not to go, never to go, because I would never be able to live without her company. It's just... It's just that I cannot imagine an everyday life without Jamia.

  
I lie lost in her embrace until she holds my face in her hands and forces me to face her. The trail of a tear passes through his left eye and compresses his lips in a rigid line. It hurts.

  
"I love you, huh? Go in peace."

  
"Me ... Me too."

  
The sky is much darker than I thought and the weather is freezing. I can already feel my nose cold, dry ice escaping through my lips as if it were near the mountains. I know I won't feel good when I get home.

  
And I don't feel it. When the door is opened, all the noise that seems to fill the atmosphere disappears and all that remains is a disturbing silence. Guadalupe slipped into the kitchen as soon as she saw my expression in alarm, talking more to herself than to me that she would serve dinner and something to think about that would come later. Alicia stops the dance immediately, locking all the functions I see from her body. I haven't scared her for a long time, but that seems about to change.

  
Because my brother is here, hugging her and caressing her protruding belly. His eyes go to the floor next to the mute thump of the doorknob, as if looking at me was as difficult as curing a plague. Why the hell does this kid just show up on my worst days?

  
Simmons slips off the bond of his fiancé, ashamed. I avoid facing her for more than a few seconds, turning completely to Michael, who has already shrugged and folded his arms against his belly. From here it looks like the little brother I left more than a decade ago, scared, too frightened with everything around him to lift his head.

  
Why cannot I bring it all back?

  
"Turn off the balcony lights, Alicia. It's already late." Actually, it is not. We should just turn off the lights in two hours, but his presence is making me uncomfortable. And it's because it's far away.

  
I take the long steps toward the stairs.

  
"Gerard... We need to talk." His voice sounds weak. I tilt my head to the side.

  
The pain in his expression is clearer than anything else. Behind him, the girl is focused on everything but us. My first instinct is to turn around and hug him, comfort him, say that I'm the stupid one and that he never did anything wrong - but I just learned to control my instincts.

  
"No, we don't." Sigh. "Get out in at most half an hour."

  
I know I won't be able to sleep even after a few milk mugs and a long bath to the music that I had not listened to for centuries. The recent encounter disturbed me as much as my friend's only two weeks' notice; and I've always had the misfortune to think too much when I lie in bed.

  
Thinking too takes away my sleep.

  
Thinking too much makes me sick.

  
Thinking too much leaves me in the dark.

  
Thinking too much suffocates me.

  
And I can do nothing to change that.

 

\- Forgive me. Please forgive me.


	21. Stay

It's uncomfortable sitting at the table with Alicia and not hearing her talk about her son or marriage. We have talked every morning for so long that the silence that was once my great companion now agonizes me, drawing me a long and troubled sigh. The girl hugs her belly.

Maybe, just maybe, I should have accepted my brother's proposal to talk and apologized for the times I'd disowned him after listening to a teenage cry, even though he was not really sorry. They always said that it was necessary to get hurt - sometimes literally - from all those who went through life to learn to deal with everything the world would have to offer and then destroy, except that Michael didn't; he simply never learned and the duty to show how life works was apparently mine.

Maybe I could have done it less abruptly.

"Apologize to Mikey for me. For yesterday."

"Why don't you do it yourself when he comes back?"  Yes. In her voice, I can find a lint of hope that I and her fiancé will solve. As much as I want, something prevents me. "He went to the capital to do some concerts. It's finally on the rise." Answer me before I ask. A hint of pride inflates my chest.

"I don't know if I can..." And I won't. Just thinking of apologizing in front of my youngest after spending so much time avoiding showing any emotion to him, I already feel the fear escalate the throat. "We are not... So close..."

"But he loves you, Gerard. From the bottom of his heart, he loves you." She interrupts me. I shrug.

"I don't feel..."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Throw her arms up. Did I piss her off? "If you didn't, you wouldn't be trying to rebuild your relationship."

"That scares me, Alicia. You have no idea."

"You don't have to. It's your little brother."

The mood between us remains strange even after smiling encouragingly and releasing a brief comment about the child in her womb. I just received the intervention of a nineteen-year-old girl as if she were a little child. I am aware that she wants my relationship with Michael to improve - whether out of worry or self-indulgence - and that convincing me to talk to him is only the first step. Maybe deep down I want it too.

Guadalupe appears with my coat, wishing me a good day. She's more my mother than her own, and that comforts me. Someone will be waiting for me at night.

I know I'm late when I see the city very wide awake and the gates of the School of Knowledge wide open, to which the children run screaming inside. I can feel the excitement of almost as much as I do with the strange, dubious looks of the adults on the way to the studio. For the first time, it's not like I care.

As I open the front door, I hear clearly the voices of Jamia and my boy. Shouldn't he be home in a few hours? Why has it come so soon? And why are you talking to Nestor as if they were great friends? Hence his expression is calm, relaxed and everything seems too controlled to be a discussion or a misunderstanding. The conversation is too peaceful for my taste.

Anthony practically jumps up to me when he hears the high thud of the knob, opening the proudest smile I've ever seen. Even embarrassed, biting his tongue to ask what they were talking about, I greeted him in my arms affectionately, pressing him to my chest and taking his lips urgently. I smell the pomegranate and the taste of the strawberry and the disappearance of the world. I am so devoted to him that I dare not care when the air becomes necessary.

"Good morning." He whispers into my mouth, rubbing his thin nose into mine, too preoccupied to hold me to notice how seriousJamia is, as I do when I hide his face on my shoulder in a hug. She lowers her head and sighs, her dark hair covering her features. I squeeze the boy against me.

"Good morning, my boy. Good Morning." He walks away smiling and guides me by the hand to the main hall, chattering about something I can not discern. My friend looks up at both of us, scratching the back of the neck and frowning. She looks lost. "Jamia, are you okay?"

"Uhn... Yes, yes, I'm fine." She almost smiled. Venus puts his fingers in mine. "Could you... Please... pack everything upstairs?" Her voice is careful, the fear of breaking me self-evident. I shake my head.

"It's all right."

Frankie purses his lips but says nothing and follows me upstairs. His blue sleeves are rolled up to his shoulders and his shoes dropped off the entrance. I don't know if that means he finally feels comfortable to act as he want in here or if he's a mess. Internally twist to be the first. Clutter pisses me off.

My boy looks around at the paintings and marches up to Miss Hays, a clear reference to Judith, so large that I need to get into the storage room to the left of the room to find a box in which it fits. The styrofoam in the background embraces and guards her, to which he leans over her to seal the cap, so skillful and natural, rebel strands falling into his eyes, molding his face so much more beautiful than the picture guarded. He is wonderful. Just wonderful.

"What is it?" He asks when he realizes that I am some time later facing him to be alive. My cheeks heat up instantly and I feel like hiding anywhere so I do not see my redness. "Gerard?"

"Uh, nothing. There's no..." He frowns. "There's nothing." I know he didn't believe a word I said, so I'm behind the screen that lodged in front of him, accepting his help to get it into another box. I don't know why I'm nervous, it's not like we're still in that part of the story where I just admire him and he pretends he doesn't see anything. He is my lover now and we belong to each other.

"You know you don't fool me, do you?" He's smiling. And he really doesn't know how beautiful his smile is.

"I know."

I also know that I am looking like an immature teenager who is talking to the first school sweetheart.

I let my arms fall as I take the painting away.

"Gerard, wake up." He catches my attention with two palms. I scratch my eyes with my knuckles. "You're airy today. Did you see a goblin with a pot of gold in the hills?"

"Look, the goblin, I see every day..." I must make a mental note about stopping the remarks about his high.

He folds his arms and narrows his eyes.

"Pardon." My smile disappears, to which I kneel before him and help to seal the lid. Venus nods amusedly. "What was that?"

"Did Jamia have a brother?" Obviously I paled automatically, the color fleeing from my body to some-place-quite-far. She never talked about him to someone other than me in extreme situations. Why did she tell Anthony if he felt uncomfortable until yesterday?

"She told you that?"

"Not really." My boy, sitting down, lazy. "It's just that she talks about you in the same tone Blair uses to talk about Elizabeth when she misses Courtney." Wait, give me a minute to absorb. Blair is the twin with green eyes and Courtney the one with brown eyes and Elizabeth the oldest - and unbearable, according to the boy. Okay, now I understand.

"And that means..."

"That she loves you like a brother because she doesn't have hers anymore." Sigh. My heart seems to slow down from here.

"Yes, she did." My voice fails. "He was five years older and died when she was about to turn thirteen."

"That's why she cares for you so much." He joins his eyebrows, taking on a thoughtful, distant expression. What does he want with this subject? Get to the part where I go crazy and ask to stop digging up any memories of our teenage years? "That's why she's afraid of what you can feel for me."

"What?!" I almost scream, making him dumb, but he keeps his gaze on mine, as if he needs it to show me what he says is true.

"She told me that you've been hurt all your life by all those around you and that you're afraid I will."

"Would you hurt me, Anthony?" Now my heart beats hard.

"No, I wouldn't."

I don't want to think about what would happen if he hurt me. I've never been in love before; he is my first and just thinking of having my heart broken for the first love causes me an overwhelming dread. He cannot break my heart. _He cannot_.

I can hear him when he sighs and stands up, walking at a rapid pace until he reaches me and holds my face in his small hands. Of course I wouldn't be so thoughtful. It's him and it's not him at the same time. My head hurts.

"Gerard, wake up." Shit. "You're further afield than the South today, and we both know that to get there it takes a few weeks on horseback without a break." Never tried. "Did I do something for you?" He looks hurt, stretching his body to meet my eyes and running his thumbs down my cheeks.

"No, you did not. "And I did not sound convincing at all. "Me and Michael argued last night and..."

"Is not it time to settle with him?" Is he really paying for a lower, younger version of Alicia Simmons in front of me?" That's right?

"Why does everyone say that?"

"Because it's the right thing to do."

Venus kisses the tip of my nose and smiles once more, walking away to the paintings we have forgotten for some time. Do I really have to push all my pride away and talk to my brother before we get to a level where there will be no turning back?

I hear the door slam and Jamia's voice calls. Venus stays on his back, opening and closing boxes while I'm useless.

The man open a sympathetic smile to me as I reach for him, stretching out a wrinkled hand to pick it up. I should be listening to every thank-you out of his mouth, to which he chatters relentlessly about how much his longtime wife will love the present and that no price will be fair for such art. I have grown accustomed to exaggerated praise and admired laughter over the years. I also think I'm traveling too much for one morning.

Nestor runs her hand over my shoulders as the man leaves. We gave up showing affection in front of strangers since they began to think she was my new wife. She does not say anything and just holds me with a bit of strength, as if she knew that this is what I need, not questions or advice that I won't follow.

I shouldn't show weakness, but it's no good anymore. She is my friend; and we know it's true because nothing I do will be able to pay for everything and she's fine with it.

We are here because we want, not out of obligation.


End file.
